First Times and First Impressions
by Helen Nita
Summary: Mitchell and Herrick in 1947 meet with Old One Hal on a trip to London. And he has a request.
1. A meeting in Belgravia

**This is my first attempt at a fan fiction. I know I'm not the first to do a 'What if Hal and Mitchell met' but hopefully I have made this enough of mine not to incur wrath!**

**Started off as a one-off which is where the length in Chapter one comes from.**

**As always, Mitchell, Herrick, Hal and everything Being human isn't and never shall be mine. I bow down to the genious that is TW and wish him and the Being Human series all the success in the future. Huzzah!**

* * *

Summer 1948

They were standing in the grand lobby of a London Belgravia townhouse. Dressed up like two penguins about to meet an Old One, Mitchell fingered his collar, he hated getting trussed up like a circus ring master. And to get dressed up and come here, where he couldn't even use his ridiculous get-up to attract a pretty drink riled him even more.

God he was hungry. He shifted his feet uneasily and earned a hard look from the man next to him. Mitchell scowled.

'You better stop that once we're in there.' Warned Herrick, dressed just as smartly, but somehow looking like he was wearing a comfortable silk and feather blanket.

'C'mon Herrick,' whined Mitchell, he knew he sounded like a child, but right now he felt like one. A stubborn, awkward kid in his Sunday best. 'You know how I feel about all this.' His eyes narrowed. 'I look like a fucking clown.'

'Language!' Herrick shot back. Then he blinked, calming himself. Mitchell hadn't seen him this worked up in a while. But then again, an Old One was a big deal. 'You look,' he said slowly, 'Like you are supposed to look. And you will act,' he warned, coldness coming into his voice, 'Like you are supposed to act. Is that clear?'

Mitchell nodded. He knew better then to push. It was never worth it. 'I just don't understand why we couldn't have got something to eat first.' He muttered mutinously.

'Because, Mitchell.' Herrick said patiently adjusting his perfect bow tie. 'With you it is never just one something and I need you focused right now. There's no dealing with you right after a kill.'

Mitchell set his jaw.

'Look,' said Herrick with a sigh, removing an invisible bit of dust from his recruit's lapel. 'Afterwards, if this goes well, we can go out and rip this city to shreds, but we need his,' Herrick indicated the huge doors they were waiting outside of, 'approval first. I've got a good relationship with the current man who runs this town, but everyone says he's on his way out. This meeting, is to discuss who is to follow.'

'So we're not here to see the London guy?' Said Mitchell with a frown.

'No Mitchell,' Replied Herrick with a sigh. 'As I said on the journey over when you swore you were listening,' Mitchell rolled his eyes, 'We are here, to met the man to will decide.'

'Looking to expand are we?' Mitchell grinned.

Herrick smiled. 'London could be a step up,' he conceded, 'but there are many that have to agree first.' His eyes turned hard, 'Like the man through _that_ door.' He said pointing to the large black doors that lead into the main reception room.

'Okay, okay I get it' Mitchell said raising his hand in supplication. 'No worries. I'll be your poster boy, I'll say all the right things.'

Herrick cleared his throat. 'How about we keep talking to a minimum from you. Last thing we need is for you to shoot your mouth off with him around. He's not as forgiving as I am.'

'I can't imagine that,' grinned Mitchell.

'I'm serious Mitchell,' Herrick warned.'You put a finger out of line while he's around, and he will hold your entire hand in a bowl of werewolf blood until there is nothing left but a stump.' Mitchell blinked. 'He's done it before.'

'Okay.' nodded Mitchell. 'Message received.'

Herrick placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Look, If I don't get selected someone else may come along who we don't have such a great relationship with.'

Mitchell rolled his eyes. Politics really weren't his thing. Never would be, far too much of a headache.

The big oak doors in front of them opened and a smart non-descript man stepped forward. He looked over both of them and then moved to the side. 'Mr Yorke will be up shortly. Please come in.'

Mitchell bit his bottom lip and frowned, Jesus, he was hungry.

* * *

Mitchell had been a vampire for thirty-one years. There was no humanity in him, it had been drowned in the blood of every man, woman and child that caught his eye on his European tour.

And there had been many. His first has been the hardest, he still remembered the freezing tentacles clasp him right before. Was he actually doing this? Could he? He had cried, a dry sob echoing through is chest as he leaned in, stroking away Arthur's hair, whispering to him 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry'. The rest were easy. Next had been a dirty French whore, he didn't even know her name. He liked it that way. He didn't like to get too personal.

'Give it a decade, you'll want to take your time with them, there's art to the kill.' Herrick whispered to him. It had taken less than that though. Like a starving man, he had gorged, it was food, and he was never full. Eventually he found he wanted to delay that moment. It wasn't about the kill – well not _all_ about the kill – it was about the conquest. And the conquest was that much sweeter when you delayed it.

Mitchell lived for those moments. If he wasn't feeding, he was thinking about the next time, he wanted to have a 'project' on the go all the time. His eyes would scan for his next meal before the last had hit the ground. He had already forgotten whatever-their-name-was, why bother the brain cells? Once or twice he had looked down at the crumpled tangle of limbs and clothes and wonder where they were now. Somewhere he wasn't that's for sure. But somewhere he and seen a glimpse.

He had tried to ignore it, at first. He remembered dying, the cold moving around his body like morphine, filling his veins as his warm blood was drained away. He had seen the men on the other side, shadowy figures that swung thick ropes and fingered chains. Then a tug, like a rope tied around your middle, yanking him back, and then… this.

* * *

1917 - Herrick had been there, staring down at him. 'Finally awake soldier?' Grinning ear to ear, cleaning his teeth with a dirty fingernail. 'Sorry about the mess' he remarked leaning down to move a young private's body off Mitchell's cold, numb leg. 'We got a bit peckish waiting for you.'

Mitchell lay there, looking around him, he remembered the cold, he remembered Herrick, he remembered Herrick's promise.

'They're… you're…' his throat was dry, like he hadn't drank water in a week. His mouth burned. 'You said you would let them go.' He chocked.

Herrick blinked, looked down at his new recruit and then at the mass of bodies around. 'Well,' he said, a look of exasperated innocence on his face 'We let most of them go,' he did a mental count. 'I think.'

He leaned down and effortlessly pulled Mitchell onto his unsteady feet like a father with his toddler. 'Anyway, no point worrying about all that now.' He said, 'We've got to go catch up with the others. There's this great little whore house about five miles south that I think should be every man's first time. _Le Petite Fleur_, wonderful place.' He slapped Mitchell heartily on the back, grinning.

Mitchell wasn't listening. _So many bodies_, he thought looking at his feet. There's Frith, and Bobby and… his own thoughts trailed away from him as he focused on private Bobby Yates. They had been from the same village, not joined up together, but Mitchell knew him. But that wasn't what he was thinking. White noise had filled his ears, his hair was tingling, his mouth burning. He was looking at Bobby Yates' face, blank eyes, dried blood down his cheek, resting on his neck… it smelled like nothing he has ever smelt before.

He blinked, and suddenly saw the blood in a whole other way, vivid colours, shining, whirling and twisting on itself as it moved, it was glowing with life like a tiny river of fireflies; the colour his black, predatory eyes could now see. He felt his teeth change, his jaw open to make way for sharp enamel that had grown out of nowhere.

'Hold on there soldier' Herrick said, placing a small but firm hand on Mitchell's chest. Mitchell blinked, he saw normally again, blinked again, not sure what had just happened, hoping it wasn't what he feared … he was one of them. 'Let's not start with yesterday's leftovers shall we.' Herrick said quietly.

He gingerly put his hands on Mitchell's shoulders, turning him around. 'You'll remember your first forever. I think we should have something a little more pretty, yes?' He said encouragingly.

Mitchell was numb, in shock. He stumbled away obediently, letting his maker lead him away from the smell that had taken hold of him. Mitchell took a shuddering empty breath, _What'is happening to me_? He turned his head back towards the pile of his former friends._ I died with them_, he thought emptily. _At least we died together._

He turned to look at Herrick, still two hands firmly on his shoulders, propelling him forward to go knows where.

He was dead, _I died because of him_. He killed my men, my friends. A wave of nausea overcame him, he half wretched, half stumbled himself away, spinning and crumbling to the ground.

'Get away from me' he rasped, his throat was so sore as he scrambled away, the ground spiky and rough scraping his skin on his palms until he rammed into the back of a tall pine tree. 'You killed them!' he was shaking, breath coming fast, panic was replacing shock… he clutched his chest, _Why isn't my heart hammering?_ He looked down. He felt nothing through his stained jacket._ I'm dead, no heart, no breath._ He looked back at Herrick. 'You killed me.'

'Now, calm down.' said Herrick warningly, raising both hands up as he walked slowly towards him.

'You killed me!' Mitchell shouted, pointing at him, using the tree to force himself up. He had to get away.

'Yes I did,' Herrick said patiently, his voice as calm as if he were talking to a baby. 'But I've given you so much more.' His face broke into a big smile. 'You have no idea John.' He took another step closer. 'I've given you more than anyone else could ever give. I've made you a god.'

'No,' Mitchell said, 'You're a monster.' He said, blinking away tears, he could see his friends behind Herrick, he could smell them. Why did he want to run and bury his face in their dried blood?

'John,' chuckled Herrick. 'If I'm a monster, then so are you now.'

Mitchell shook his head. 'No,' he whispered. 'No I'm not.' He edged around the tree backing away furiously, tripping over a root. 'Leave me alone. I'm not like you.' He said gasping, 'I'm not.' he pleaded.

He turned and ran. Through the trees, away, he had to get far away from this monster. He had to get back, he had to get away from this nightmare.

'You'll come back,' Shouted Herrick after him. 'We're all you've got now John!'

William Herrick hated the whore house. He looked around at the floor, the walls, the flea bitten furniture. _Don't get me wrong,_ he thought to himself, as he cleaned his nails, lying on the cleanest looking chaise long in the room; it was quite nice when we got here, a place for officers, not squaddies. But now there was dust, and blood and mud everywhere. Not to mention broken furniture, ripped material, a discarded shoe, spilt wine, crushed glass, broken mirrors._ We really are animals,_ he mused.

They had been here a week, of course the domestic staff had been the first to go, hence the state of neglect. But with the five of them around, and only three more humans trapped in the downstairs basement they would have to move out in a day or so.

Herrick heaved a sigh. He had hoped his recruit would have turned up by now. The others had wanted to kill and move out three days ago, but they wouldn't do anything without him, and he wasn't ready.

If John Mitchell is going to come back, we need to be here at La Petite Fleur. He thought nodding.

But it has been over a week. No new recruit could last that long without feeding. He had seen the look on John's face at the sight of the bodies, the hunger. There is no way he could ignore it for long.

Maybe he got blown up, Herrick considered. Either getting back or once there, it wouldn't be the first time.

He stood, crossed the room, skirted around the remains of a blood stained gown and moved to the window. The curtain was torn, he distastefully pushed the flowery print faded aside to look out at the street. His insides stirred.

There he was. _There's my soldier_. Herrick smiled.

Mitchell was staring up at the building before him faded pink with a half broken swinging sign that proclaimed it to be the one Herrick had told him about.

He breathed hard, pain, nausea, confusion and panic written all over his face. He didn't want to be here, but he had no where else to go. His first mouthful of blood had been like heaven, pure ecstasy. He drained his friend dry and almost cried when there was none left; the icy hand around his heart had melted way as a soft, beautiful fire filled him from his toes to his tingling hair.

He couldn't go back, there was no going back. His eyes met Herrick's staring down from the window of the whore house. _If I go in_, he thought, _There's no going back. I've chosen._

_But, _said a warm, calm voice in his head, _Haven't you chosen already?_

He swallowed and stepped forward towards the door, he wanted to run to it, to run to them, but he stopped himself.

Herrick was waiting, the door open. Behind him were the four others he had seen in the forest before, all grinning in the shadows.

Herrick's wide smile welcomed him in, his arms outstretched. 'Welcome John! We're so glad you're here.'

Mitchell stepped forward, allowing himself to be hugged but not returning it. _I've made my choice,_ the warm voice said again.

'Call me Mitchell.' He muttered.

* * *

1948

'Ahh Herrick. How nice of you to pop by.'

A rich clipped voice echoed from within an open hidden door where stairs descended into what Mitchell assumed was a cellar.

A smartly DJ'd Hal dabbed at his bottom lip with a starched white handkerchief before placing the now blood speckled item into a hidden pocket in his dinner jacket as he came to the top step. Behind him were about three or four other similarly dressed men.

Mitchell looked at this legendary vampire. He was shorter than him but not by that much. Mitchell though they looked to have been recruited at roughly the same age although that had nothing to do with how old they were.

He was stood one pace behind Herrick, as always when entering an unfamiliar place. He stepped carefully when in this type of company. He took his lead from his maker, and right now, he could tell that Herrick, although appearing his normal cool, collected and jovial self, was anything but. He had been warned about this vampire.

'Lord Harry,' said Herrick, a tentative grin snapping onto his previously shocked face. He took a step forward in front of him raising his hand to shake.

Hal looked down at the proffered hand then flicked his eyes back at Herrick. The smile was thin, the eyes cold.

'Ah yes sorry,' Herrick said with a nervous laugh, 'My mistake.' He cleared his throat and withdrew the hand.

There was a pause, Mitchell looked behind this new man at his henchmen behind, all waiting to see which way their master would go. They were scared of him, he looked over at Herrick, Herrick seemed scared of him too. This was new to Mitchell, the muscles in his neck tensed.

Hal broke into a large smile with a laugh, stepping forward and putting both hands on Herrick's shoulders. 'Only jesting William!' he announced, before clapping him a little too hard on each arm. 'And it's Hal now. Harry is a bit last century don't you agree?' he continued, guiding Herrick toward a small group of furnishings to one side.

The men behind him all grinned and started to disperse around the room. Herrick's shoulders slumped as he returned the smile in wary relief. Mitchell shifted his feet, he wasn't quite ready to stand at ease yet. He kept tensing and relaxing his shoulders, he didn't like the tight cut of his suit, he hated the scratchy collar and would have kissed anyone that said he could untie the blasted bow strangling his neck.

His eyes met Hal's for a second. They were cold, dangerous and turned his cold blood icy. This man made him seem like a useless human again, he looked away first.

Herrick hesitated, although he didn't pull away. Hal's eyebrow raised in question. 'Please,' said Herrick, raising his hand behind him to where Mitchell stood. 'May I introduce John Mitchell to you?'

Hal's head turned towards Mitchell. His eyes swept over him, taking everything in from toe to face. They looked at each other, this time Mitchell held his gaze.

Hal looked back at Herrick, then stepped away, removing his shoulder grip to look fully at Mitchell. He blinked and a small smile creped onto his face. 'Pleasure, John Mitchell.' He said as he raised his hand up. 'I've heard good things.'

Mitchell shot a quick look at Herrick who was looking between the two with blank surprise, then his eyes rammed into Mitchell's hard. Mitchell turned to Hal and took his hand as warmly as he could, shaking once before he was promptly dropped.

Hal flicked a perfunctory smile and then indicated them both to sit down at a group of intimidating wood and fabric furniture in a corner opposite the door.

Mitchell and Herrick obeyed, this was no request. They unbuttoned their jackets as they sat, much to Mitchell's relief, _One button closer to comfort_, the thought. Herrick took the sofa, Hal at the head of a small but beautiful wooden table that was in the middle sat back into a high backs arm chair. Mitchell took a chair opposite his maker, lowing himself down slowly.

'It's a shame you couldn't be here earlier.' began Hal lightly, leaning back into his chair, one elbow resting on the arm. 'We have somewhat of a little wager going on downstairs.' He extended his hand to the side, palm up where a small beautiful sherry glass was placed and a decanter produced.

One of the men that had followed Hal up into the room hovered, pouring thick dark, glorious liquid into the crystal. Sitting where he was Mitchell could smell the warm bloody still retained it's gorgeous life spark. This was drawn barely half an hour ago, it made his eyes burn and mouth water.

'Please,' offered Hal as two other filled glasses were handed out to Herrick and Mitchell. Again, he looked at his maker for a prompt.

'To your health, Hal' announced Herrick with a small tip of the head as he sipped. Mitchell inwardly groaned, he hated sipping anything, what was the point?

Hal smiled again before trying his own. 'Yes,' he continued, he face animated, open and friendly. No thought Mitchell, seeming open and friendly. 'We found a gorgeous pair of twins, beautiful creatures really. Worked at a carnival, they had this wonderful little act.' He paused. 'Or should I say had.' He smirked 'When separated, they were still connected. You showed one a picture, and the other knew what it was. Highly fascinating if genuine.

'So, I wanted to test it myself.' He looked to Mitchell who despite himself was being drawn in. 'So we put them in two separate rooms – sound proofed of course and ran our own experiment.'

'I image not with picture cards.' Chimed Herrick.

Hal gave a small laugh. 'Well we have to put our own spin on things now don't we Mr Herrick.' He glanced over at his four men who were laughing amongst themselves at the other end of the room, a discrete distance away.

'Did it work?' Asked Mitchell leaning forward. Herrick shot him a warning look, 'May I ask?' he added hastily.

Hal's gaze went back to him. 'Sadly they didn't pass the first test, no. The first, Molly I think, or Mary had no idea what we were doing to her dear sister. And that girl should definitely have picked up on something.'

'What did you do,' Mitchell was eager to hear everything, damn it, he was getting turned on! He had ideas, but this guy in front of him had 400 years on him. He would know so much more.

Hal's mouth tugged at the corners he leaned closer, his silky voice low, 'Everything.' Mitchell grinned, his attention fixed. Hal's smile broadened. 'Can you image that?'

Mitchell nodded, his eyes darkening, oh yes, he could image all kinds of fantastic.

'What happened with the second test?' Prompted Herrick, not liking the close attention his recruit was getting. Hal leaned back into his chair again. 'You said that was just the first?' Herrick added.

'We don't know yet.' Hal said simply. 'We will see once she wakes up.' He pulled up his Dinner Jacket sleeve his wrist to reveal small faded bite marks, he licked the end of his thumb and rubbed away a small trace of dried blood, ignoring his guests.

Mitchell blinked. 'You… recruited her?' he asked disbelievingly.

'Mitchell.' Herrick said softly, it was a warning.

'Not for long.' Replied Hal, replacing his sleeve and taking another sip from his glass. 'Just until I see if I've won my bet.'

'What?' Mitchell whispered, glancing at Herrick, ignoring the look of heat behind his maker's eyes. 'You're going to end her?'

Hal shrugged lightly, looking into his glass. 'Have to really. After all that time with her, we didn't exactly leave her mentally intact.' He said lightly, smirking at the glass then looked up with amused seriousness, 'It will be the humane thing to do after all.' And he burst out laughing.

Herrick joined him. Mitchell didn't.

There was silence. Mitchell blinked, 'How long have they been down there?' the cold, icy hand reaching around his heart again, he was starting to think he wasn't going to like answer.

Hal looked at him, his eyes clear, menacing, _Like looking into the Devil's_ Mitchell thought.

'Six months.' He smiled.

Mitchell swallowed. 'Why?' He asked.

Hal gave a small amused laugh to himself, 'I want to know if she can tell her first mouthful of blood is her sister's. Just enough to whet the appetite, then the big reveal!' He indicated the glass. 'then we'll put them in the same room and see what happens.'

Mitchell froze. He was sure if he wasn't so shocked he would have been shaking. It was all he could do to try not to think. But he couldn't stop himself thinking.

He remembered his first kill, he remembered the pain just before, of knowing who it was. Then that smallest of milliseconds after, when Arthur lay on the sofa, eyes closed, slumped like he was asleep. Mitchell had been so high on his first feed. But he had known what he was done. To his friend.

She, this poor woman that Hal didn't even know the name of was going to feel that, for a sister. And she wouldn't have any way of preparing herself before. No moment of weakness where you rationalize it in your own head. _Maybe she would be too far gone_, he thought. But looking at this casual Devil in front of him now, he knew they would have made sure that wouldn't have happened. Just enough sanity to know.

Mitchell looked at Herrick, panic was setting in. He couldn't be in here. This monster in front of him may have forgotten his first time, how it left, it had been so long but not Mitchell.

His was still raw, scratching at the surface, ready to pounce whenever he wasn't ready.

'Mitchell,' Came Herrick's voice, a firm hand placed on his shoulder. He looked up, Herrick was smiling, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, he knew that Mitchell was cracking. 'Why don't you,' he said, lifting him up from the chair, 'Go out and get something to eat,' He turned Mitchell towards the door and gave him a little push 'and let me and Hal talk for a bit.'

Mitchell lurched forward, he blinked. Herrick has given him a lifeline, an exit out of the Devil's lair, he wasn't going to question.

'Yeah,' he mumbled. Then he remembered where he was, turned back to where Hal sat, as calm and pretty as a picture with his half drunk glass of the twin's blood. 'It was… good meeting ya.'

He turned and almost ran for the door. He had to get out of there, Arthur's face was tearing to the surface, he had to drown it again. He had been unprepared for the memory, he couldn't take it. It had been too long. No projects tonight, just food.

Hal watched as the ex Irish soldier left the room, his face unreadable. Hal knew he was a soldier. Recruited in 1917 in France, he had heard so he'd have to be. But Hal could tell, there was always a difference between those recruited in war and those in peace. When the body is exposed to that much adredaline in life it leaves a lasting impression in death; it fuels you to extremes. The trick was what you did with that fuel, Hal mused, using it to push you to greatness or destruction.

Herrick turned back to look at him. Hal gave a small smile, he wasn't a particular fan of Herrick; far too slimy for him. Herrick had ambition, that was obvious; in charge of Bristol and keeping it showed that. But Herrick was a peace-time ex clerk. He wouldn't challenge establishment, he would to the line, not redraw it; a perennial 'footnote' in the books of history.

'Sorry about that,' Herrick smiled wide, his small eyes creasing jollily. 'It's been a while since his last full meal.'

Hal gave a reflectory chuckle and twirled his glass. He looked at Herrick who had regained his seat. 'Was it something I said?'

'Oh no!' Replied Herrick, raising his hands. 'Not at all, just youthful high spirits.' He laughed and looked away.

_There it was, _thought Hal. _The slime to grease the truth away._ He didn't like it. His eyes narrowed. He was daring Herrick to brush it aside.

Herrick saw the look and cleared his throat. 'Well, you know what these young recruits are like, first fifty years they're still trying to find themselves.' He looked up, Hal was watching him.

He had seen the ex soldiers' face. He had hung off every word, wanting to go into every detail of what they had done to dear little Mary's sister Molly. _Oh yes, I remember their names, I remember everything_. So what had changed? It was the idea of Mary's first mouthful. Something has surfaced in him.

Hal finished off what was left in his glass. 'Tell me, Mitchell's first time? Personal connection?'

Herrick blinked. Hal smiled, _hit the nail on the head there_. He waited.

Herrick adjusted his seat. 'Funny thing really.' He started, the stress of staying jovial showing. 'As soon as he woke up, he ran off back to continue playing soldier. Not a backward glance. I barely had enough time to tell him where we were based at the time. Always in such a rush of energy.' Herrick laughed nervously. Hal raised an eyebrow, he knew that rush of energy; children born in war. 'Stayed away for a couple of weeks,' continued Herrick. 'Then shows up at our door one day. Never left since.'

Hal nodded slowly, staring at the glass again. 'But not two weeks' hungry.' He shot Herrick a look. He was getting tired of having is questions avoided.

'Ahh no, no.' Herrick stammered. He didn't like giving up any information that may come back to bite him later. He was here to present himself as head of Bristol to an Old One, show off his famous boy, not answer awkward questions. 'An army friend I think. Shared digs in the trenches.'

Hal's mouth twitched. He understood. 'Shame.' He said. 'A first time is always special, always memorable, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you.' Herrick nodded. 'The trick is to not make it too memorable. No lasting impression.'

Herrick smiled. 'Oh I'm sure it's nothing like that.' He said, cringing inwardly at how empty it sounded even to himself.

'Let's hope not.' Replied Hal. 'Everyone has heard of you and your boy's close relationship. I am coming to think it is a necessity. The lion and the lion tamer.' His eyes flashed. 'Let's hope he doesn't turn around one day and bite your hand off.'

END


	2. Four

**Okay so the one-off has now evolved to a series. Not sure how many chapters but definitely more Mitchell, Herrick and Hal.**

**This one is shorter than the first and is features Mitchell.**

**As always, I own nothing.**

* * *

Mitchell stumbled back to their townhouse in Warwick Square, Pimlico around 5am. Originally flats, thanks to patience, intimidation and immense wealth, the vampire community had managed to acquire the entire five floors converting it into an impressive digs. After thirty years of following Herrick around though, Mitchell didn't even pause at the impressive façade or wonder at how many hundreds of thousands of pounds this place was worth.

Instead in swayed at the top of the steps up to the front door, fully satisfied and ever so slightly blood drunk – _Maybe I should have stopped at that third,_ he vaguely thought to himself. He smirked to himself. Who was he kidding,_ I could have stopped at the first!_

That's when the panic had left him, anything after that was just because he wanted to. Just because he could. He smirked to himself, lazily swivelling his body to lean against the front door, enjoying the moment. He lifted his face towards the early morning sun, keeping his eyes shut under the stinging rays as he revelled in feeling the last of the night breeze fluff his hair. He loved these moments; He could feel everything around him, tingle at all the sensations that would leave no lasting impressing anywhere on his mind. _Bliss_.

This is when he relived his kills. Indulged in them, like watching a film; numb and unconnected; a voyeur of his own exploits.

* * *

He'd grabbed the first as soon as he'd left the nightmare house in Belgravia; A little maid in a wide but dark alley behind the houses. He should have waited, got further away from Lord Hal's house but he had been desperate, sprinting towards her and grabbing her roughly from behind. He'd clamped one hand hard over her mouth while driving an elbow into her stomach, winding and incapacitating before she could fight back. He lifted her up, feet dangling as he backed away further along the houses until he'd found what he was looking for.

He found an unlocked hatch where coal was funnelled into the large house's underground storeroom ready for the winter. _Thank fuck it was summer_. With luck the girl would be covered over with the next delivery and not found for months. He did a quick cursory scan around, _nothing,_ then pulled her head to the side, ripping out hair in his desperation and savagely bit down.

No poetry, no grace, he needed to empty this bitch as fast as possible. He wanted the dark red haze to blow away the encroaching terror that froze his insides, faces were coming into his head like forming ghosts ready to haunt him, he needed it gone.

He'd dropped her down the open hole like the rag doll she was, registering vaguely the torn flesh that swallowed half her neck and went through to her spine. He'd put his finger to his teeth, yep, pieces were stuck there, he'd have a job getting them out. Looking down at his clothes though, there was remarkably little blood; the luck of having to lean over such a small thing; everything fell away and her thick uniform had saved him any signs large enough to draw attention.

The high moon splintered light on them, and reflecting off her unseeing eye as she lay crumpled on the sooty floor. _Like a little diamond. _He'd chuckled as he kicked the doors closed, he was beginning to feel himself again.

Mitchell wandered south towards the river, the posh streets setting his teeth on edge. Each place looked exactly the same; tall neat houses, their white stone turned black and grey from smog that choked this and every city in post-war Britain. No one could afford to clean stonework on ration books, not event people in these mansions.

The tall metal gas lamps that once used to line the streets and encircle the little private parkettes had all gone too. The post-war years had meant a run on all supplies and luxuries like gas lights were something even the posh gits around here couldn't justify. Mitchell sighed, he'd loved walking through London with its flickering lights in the 20s; made him feel like Jack the Ripper.

The bomb damage was thankfully minimal here compared with the heart of London. He'd avoided going there; the empty skeletons of broken buildings, gutted and hollow and black from fire and ash had unnerved him. _Too much like France, _his head whispered. He took a deep breath and looked around him; he was getting morbid, he was still hungry.

A late night banker or something was coming home; umbrella and briefcase in one hand, bowler hat clutched in the other. _Thank fuck,_ Mitchell thought crossing the deserted road to meet him.

'Excuse me sir,' Mitchell had begun, grateful that he was in his respectable penguin suit. The man had looked mildly surprised at the disruption placed in front of him but hadn't been alarmed; Mitchell looked like he fitted in so why not?

'Yes?' He responded perplexed at this strange well-dressed young man.

Mitchell smiled angelically. He focused his hearing. No one near, no dirty cars close, some lights on in the houses but no one looking out. He was clear.

Mitchell's attention returned to the banker in front of him, assessing with an expert eye. Late forties at a guess he mused, gone to seed a little, receding hair line, stress lines around the mouth, forehead and yellowing eyes. Skin had a faint mustard pallor to it along with a small speckling of broken blood vessels around the nose and cheeks; a career drinker with a shot liver. The result of regular late night drinking sessions at the gentleman's club. Mitchell inhaled, brandy clung to his lips, soured with a slight acidy aftertaste; a forming ulcer.

The alcohol had slowed the blood flow through the already fat-clogged arteries evident from the little deposits under his drooping eyes. His overworked, stressed heart was thanks to this fat shit's diet, close to giving up. _I'd be doing him a fucking favour._ This man wouldn't have to wait long for a heart attack.

Mitchell's moves were sudden, coming out of nowhere; a swift punch to the throat stopped any vocal aggravations, he lifted him up by the lapels - thank Christ he'd had the maid, this fucker was heavy! – and flung him up and over the seven foot high railings into a small private park behind him. There was a tear and a crack.

_Bollocks._

Mitchell hadn't quite put the effort required to get the banker clean over, he'd caught his trousers and slashed his leg on the way over. Checking no one had appeared, Mitchell nimbly climbed over the gates, vaulting over at the top and landing with perfect acrobatic grace.

He walked over to the fallen man, wheezing and flailing around like a beached whale. His back was broken, or at least cracked from the fall. _Probably a concussion too._ The umbrella, briefcase and hat had fallen to either side of him. Mitchell was silently impressed he had held onto them while being thrown. He smiled, the bankers dazed eyes circling in confused terror, spluttering and gasping, _Maybe that punch had crushed his windpipe, the guy was turning blue_.

'What's that you say fella?' he said in mock concern. He was enjoying himself. He leaned forward and lifted him up to a slumped sitting position, yep, spine definitely broken. _If this poor sod could make a sound he'd be screaming,_ Mitchell thought in sick satisfaction. He looked at the coat he was wearing,_ nice_. He stood, flipped him over the wrenched if off._ Dislocated shoulder now, _he noted. 'You don't mind do ya?' he said to the goggling head as he flipped him over with a casual hard kick. _Broken ribs too._

He shook out the coat and looked at it. _Very nice, ahh but mud and grass stains all over the back_. Mitchell went to throw it away then stopped. Regarded it again he considered for a second and nodded before twirling it round and put it on back to front. He stood, looking down at the man, drifting into unconsciousness. _Well if it's already ruined,_ he thought, _may as well use it to keep my own threads clean!_

The poor bankers' last sight was dark eyes and pointed teeth.

He was buried in the garden, the war may have been over for three years, but the Government's _Dig For Victory_ campaign was still in full swing thanks to continued rationing. Every open space had been converted to vegetable patches even in this affluent area. Lots of garden equipment left out and soft turned soil made the job much less of a hassle. He'd picked what he'd hoped was a winter vegetable patch. _Give the banker a good few months to decompose before the owners wondered where their radishes where._

Normally he wouldn't care about hiding the evidence himself. He was far enough away from Hal's place now for it to be safe, but Herrick had warned him about needing permission. Being dismissed early meant he didn't want to risk it. Herrick was already angry with his public panic attack, didn't want to create more waves yet.

In went the body, the umbrella, hat and the briefcase, all untouched, Mitchell wasn't about to go through his pockets, he wasn't a lowly thief he scoffed airily, he was above petty crime. In followed the now thoroughly ruined coat, in the night light the stains of drying blood and soil mingling together so that even Mitchell couldn't tell which one was which. Or maybe he just didn't care.

The third had been a crier, begging for Mercy or Nancy or something equally amusing, he'd been tossed over Chelsea Bridge. Let the Thames take him far away, Mitchell didn't care. The fourth had tried to fight back, quite valiantly Mitchell conceded, and been rewarded with two broken arms and a smashed in chest for his efforts. He too went over the side along the embankment on his way home, but instead of a similarly satisfying splosh, a disquieting thud met Mitchell's oversensitive ears.

He'd peered over the edge, it was still dark, thankfully it didn't bother him. The body, another middle aged suit lay sprawled in the mud._ Bugger, low tide._ He'd stepped up onto the edge of the bank, ready to jump down and throw him in deeper, he wobbled, four in one night had left him feeling a little tight. _Ah fuck it,_ he decided, hopping down. _The water'll come in soon enough and carry him off._

He blinked lazily looking around and stretched. The moon was low, not long until morning. He'd better start making his way home. He whistled as he went, all thoughts of panics, terrors, and faces gone with the warmth of four fresh kills.

* * *

Mitchell exhaled again as he leant on the door a small smile across his face. Fuck, he was as tight as a virgin on her wedding night. He chuckled at the thought, then frowned. That's what he'd missed tonight, a good hard lay; feeding and violence always made him horny as Hell. Apart from that maid the other three had been sodding blokes. Mitchell grimaced, he could never bend that way. Maybe he could make a trip over to Soho later, that's where the whores were right? God he hated being a fucking tourist.

A yawn escaped Mitchell's lips which he let take him over, he enjoying the moment of euphoric exhaustion that was about to be followed by a soft bed and a long sleep.

There was a creak an a shudder, he wobbled, missed the open doorframe tumbled backwards, hitting the hard white and black tiled hall a jolting thud.

Mitchell let out a cry as his spine connected with the floor, knocking the air out of his lungs. _Jesus!_ Did he hear a crack? His eyes searched the ceiling to see what or who had done this, he glared, the one person he really didn't want to see right now.

'Fuck! Seth what the _fuck_ are you doing?' he blazed as he rolled over onto his stomach. Yup, something was definitely cracked back there. His mind flickered for a second on the fat banker. _Ah the irony._ If he wasn't so pissed off he would have laughed.

He pushed himself up and flung himself into the little turd's face, hand at his throat. Okay, maybe Seth wasn't the worst person to see right now, at least he could vent at Seth.

'Easy Mitchell,' Seth said, trying to sound cool and calm, and failing miserably.

'I said,' Mitchell repeated dangerously. 'What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing?' He pressed him against the wall and onto his toes. The blood has made him strong, the pain had made him pissed. He was spoiling for a fight now.

'Put him down Mitchell.' Herrick announced smoothly, appeared out of a side room. Herrick shook his head, _Like bloody children, _he thought. He looked at Mitchell who had paused, but hadn't moved. _Oh good, _He looked him over with a practiced eye,_ Pink, flushed skin, ruffled clothes, his strength's definitely back, jet black irises, I see blood, I see dirt, _he sighed _It's never just the one is it?_ 'Don't make me say it again Mitchell.' He warned lazily.

Mitchell's eyes went from Herrick back to Seth and then Herrick's again. 'He cracked my fucking spine.' He roared, his grip tightening.

Herrick crossed his arms, 'No,' he reasoned with infuriating patience. 'You did that by falling on the floor. Now, put. Him. Down.'

Mitchell clenched his jaw. Then he looked a Seth, stepped back and half threw, half pushed Seth to the floor, watching with satisfaction as he stumbled, hand to his throat.

Seth looked up at him, eyes narrowed, he raised his hand and pointed at Mitchell, hunched over. 'You watch yourself Mitchell,' he warned as he backed away. Mitchell blinked, 'Just, watch it.'

'Yeah okay,' Mitchell drawled. He could never take threats from the little weasel seriously.

He smirked and looked at Herrick, the chuckle died in this throat.

Herrick stepped back stonily from the doorway. 'In.' He commanded.

Mitchell swallowed, _So much for a soft bed._


	3. Smolensk

**Okay, so a bit later than the other one. This is pure Hal. I know, three chapters in and still setting the scene, but I love all these characters so much I don't want to rush things.**

**As always, I own nothing in this universe, I love TW for the gorgeous characters and a small thank you to Wikipedia for the historic facts.**

**Reveiws welcome, critical ones also very welcome... I want to improve and need guidance!**

* * *

Hal sat in a large, rigidly uncomfortable armchair in his townhouse's informal sitting room staring into the huge roaring fire before him, one hand cradling lazily a glass of brandy.

He liked uncomfortable chairs; they kept one awake, alert. He populated his homes with them wherever he went; he liked people to feel as uncomfortable as possible around him. There were one or two that were dotted around that weren't of course, brought out for esteemed guests on special occasions. If high up Old Ones visited for instance, He had ones specially made for Mr Snow, exact copies modeled on those that were favoured in his own residences. There was a proportionally smaller sized one for little Hetty too, although he only brought it out when Mr Snow's presence made it prudent. He wanted her just as uneasy around him as all the others.

Hal sighed.

It had been hours. If he hadn't been so aware of the time, he would have sworn he had fall asleep with his eyes open. The dancing flames flicked around in a chaotic rhythm that hypnotized away any teasing thoughts he half-heartedly tried to form. His brandy had long since settled to that temperature where the burn wasn't equal to the taste or the satisfaction. He looked down at the beautiful cut crystal glass. Maybe it was time to change his signature drink, whiskey perhaps. He half smiled to himself as he imagined how this whim would affect others; their present of brandy not holding the favour they counted on.

It was all a joke really; he knew half his job was to play the part he'd created. He was respected because he was feared; he had to keep the fear sustained.

His mouth tugged at one corner, the trace of a smile creasing him cheek.

That was half the fun when he returned from his _Ahem,_ 'sojourns of sobriety'; building up that reputation all over again. Climbing higher and higher until he was at the top of the pile again. Watching all below cowered at his glance; a moment of satisfaction that once again, he had done it.

Hal's ghost of a smile turned into a frown, circling his glass in his expert hand as his eyes swept back to the flames. That moment never lasted long. That's when restless, itchy spirits would come, whispering to him; _You have reached the top of the tower, there is nothing you can't touch that won't tremble… So covered in blood and dripping in darkness you could never be redeemed. Not even you could achieve that challenge… Could you?_

He had heard the voice before, he remembered it each time. And once that voice had come, he knew he would accept the challenge eventually. His eyes darkened and his grip tightened on the crystal; it would come, it always did, and that thought made his skin crawl. But he wasn't there yet, he breathed, forcing himself to relax, it was still just a memory of decades past. There was too much here he still wanted to do in this cycle.

This cycle was all about experimentation, so many exciting things had happened this century, the art of death and destruction had climbed to new heights, science and anatomy had moved out of myths and religion into practical and coherent formulas, every day new ways were being invented to propel the human race towards… towards what?

They were lasting longer that was true. When he was born, you had six children hoping one would survive into double figures. Now there were millions of children everywhere, a child's death was a shocking surprise to be mourned for years not accepted as inevitable.

Maybe that's why ways to kill had progressed so well too. Mustard gas, carbon monoxide, gas poisoning, atomic fall out. It was fascinating. The more ways they found to save each other, the more they discovered to destroy.

He glanced over at the small table next to him where a neatly presented document lay; _'__A Study of a Human Central Nervous System after twenty-six Years of Complete Spinal Transection. A dissertation submitted March, 1940' by David Barrett Clark_

He had read it eagerly, fascinated at the complexities of the human body that had always been an accepted mystery before. He smiled at it fondly. It had been such a useful reference guide to him. Literally months of entertainment.

_Speaking of which_… he looked up at the gold and enamel mantelpiece clock above the fireplace. All cherubs and nymphs frolicking on a power blue carved stand. Not really his style but it had been a gift from Ivan.

_'I picked it up in France, supposed to have been Marie-Antoinette's in the Petit Trianon.' He'd said when handing it over. 'Now there was a woman with appetites.'_

_Hal had looked it over carelessly, it was beautiful and probably had been, although he'd never bought into the rumours that she had used that place as her private sex den. He clearly looked unimpressed, so Ivan moved on, 'It ended up in Robespierre's office after the Revolution.'_

_'Ahh,' Hal had said with a small smile. 'Now there is an appetite I can appreciate.'_

The story about Robespierre was probably false, just said to appeal to him, but he liked to think that this clock's innocent face had looked on benignly as one of the most blood-thirsty humans of the 18th century had casually signed away so many lives. He stood up and walked towards it, scrutinizing the glass case that protected the dials, watching as the blurred image of his own face appeared in it; the closest he could get to a reflection. He saw dark hair, white skin tinted orange from the flames below, dark eyes… yes, he still recognised himself even after all these years. He wondered if he would still remember what he looked like if it wasn't for these transparent reflections, or the usually sycophantically dubious artistic commission. He remembered most things, would he remember himself?

Hal blinked and set his jaw, he was getting morbid. It had been a few hours since his last mouthful of blood, but it had been months since he'd gorged himself properly; he needed a distraction.

That gleaming white enamel face showed it was 5.23 in the morning. He sighed. No chance his little experience would have woken up yet. Anyway he had posted two of his men outside her cell with orders to inform him the moment it happened.

It had been five and a half hours since his meeting with William Herrick and his Boy Wonder Mitchell. Three hours ten minutes since Herrick had left to go to his home. And two hours forty-three minutes since he had come in here.

Hal stared deep into the beautiful flames as they licked around the black logs. He didn't need their heat anymore. It was summer outside and was hardly necessary, the same for light since electricity had come to every home in the British Isles. All the heat he could ever want he could find in the veins of his next meal, all light, from the lamp by his side. But he had always felt such a human connection to fire. Ever since he had looked up at the small flames and his desperate, beating heart and shredded soul had been filled with the purest, most exquisite joy; It had been the most precious sight on the face of the earth. It had meant salvation, hope and he had literally cried with joy and believed, for a second, that there was a merciful God.

* * *

Before Orsha, there had been the December Siege of Smolensk, the beginning of the Fourth Muscovite-Lithuanian War. The Muscovy forces had invaded the Grand Duchy of Lithuania hoping to capture his major trading centre, and all the people inside the town with it.

All had been quiet between the two nations for four years and Henry Yorke had found himself an unfortunate wanderer searching for work when the gates had closed and the panic had given way to despair. As the winter of December 1512 took hold, he found himself trapped in a frozen, starving and hopeless town in siege. He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he it had almost cost him his life.

He'd come here looking for work two months earlier and never thought he would become locked in like a caged animal with thousands of other desperate shaking souls. Mercenary Henry Yorke had arrived after leaving his respected place part of a crew of merchant sailor. Henry smiled humourlessly – who was he deceiving, he had been part of a Dutch raiding crew, stripping anyone they came across of anything of value and dividing it up accordingly. It had been hard, Henry still had the rope burns to prove it, but the spoils had been worth it.

Everyone was moving around the seas now, and French, Spanish and English ships had grown fat, slow and rich as they waddled through the water like Geese carrying golden eggs. He smiled, Everything he now owned had been taken from someone else on those trips and that gave him pride. He'd had nothing growing up, always begging, stealing and fighting for the smallest scrap of food or clothes to keep him alive. Now he had things he had only marvelled at before, staring with round eyes at the beautiful people passed him by in the gutter. Now he had their beautiful things; prizes won in wars.

He trudged through the frozen dirt that caked the cobbled streets, bent over by the weight of his pack and weary from hunger and exhaustion. Inside were his treasures; his living. His pride a joy a gorgeous broadsword that slapped his thigh as he shuffled forward; Polished to perfection, inlaid with gold filigree and a fine ivory handle and golden guard taken from the lifeless hands of an English marine officer.

'Traitor' the man had roared in answer to Henry's order to lay down his arms. Henry hadn't even paused, swiping at the unguarded neck with his knife, the life's bloody splattering his face. His comrades respected him, but after years together, not one of them could claim to know him. They saw him as remote, efficient but fair; a thread-bare soul that was the product an unforgiving life in an uncaring world, it was how he had managed to survived. He showed no love for any man whether he be French, Spanish or his own English brethren.

That very same officer had also 'donated' a pair of spurs and leather boots. _Poor sod,_ Henry had thought afterwards as he sat on his bunk below deck examining his new acquisitions, _Fresh boots, and the sword had barely a tarnish on it. New man on his first trip, out to make Father proud_. There was a small crest on the hilt of the sword, a wolf's head, very nicely picked out. A minor baron's son maybe.

It didn't matter anymore. The man was dead, and Henry was sure, as he adjusted his pack and shivered against the winter and hunger that now faced him, that soon he would be too. The cold air whistled through his bones, sending a dizzying ache through his gloved fingers to the tips of his frozen toes. He hadn't eaten anything more than a mouthful of stale bread for three days. His breath came out in burning dry ragged jerks. He was going to die tonight in this God-forsaken foreign country, a miserable heap, like all the other miserable heaps stranded in this town.

He hung his head in despair; he should have left when he'd heard the first whispers that the Muscovites were coming, that they wanted this town as a prize. But no, he had brushed it off just like everyone else, there was always a whisper somewhere, and no one attached in winter time.

They had been unprepared, it had been six weeks and everything was running out; his money, food, fuel; everyone was cold, everyone was hungry, everyone preyed that someone would do something.

He'd knocked on a few doors, he was a soldier, he could fight for the town – if the price was right. But no, siege meant no fighting so he was stuck on the streets, with not enough to even buy a rat – although most of those had disappeared into other people's stomachs by now. It had been six weeks, the town did have enough to last long, it was going to fold any time now.

Henry wandered down another alley, every doorway was bolted, every window shut, the only people on the streets were a step closer to death than himself, covered in sores, dirt, frost and God knows what else.

He had to keep moving. He had to find somewhere. He was loosing the last tatters of his sanity with each stumbling step. He couldn't die here. He didn't care about his country, he knew no one was left to mourn him, but he couldn't die _here_, as a starving vagrant, thousands of miles from anything he knew. He wanted his death to have a purpose, he needed _something_ in his life to have a purpose.

His shoulder grazed a hard stone wall, ricocheting him into a zig zag. He was exhausted. He stopped, reached into his pocket and withdrew the last mouthful he had; more biscuit than bread and right now worth more than anything he had slung over his back of clanking against his leg. Once he had eaten this, that was it. No more food. No hope. A frustrated tear escaped his weary eye. His whole life he had struggled, if there was a God, He had cursed him before Henry had drawn his first breath in the stinking diseased whore house. He had had no chance.

His lucid thoughts splintered at a sudden noise. A shout in the distance.

Henry looked up, had the Muscovites finally got in? If so he would be the first to die. All men with swords would be taken away and killed. He looked down at the bread and thrust it into his dry mouth, crunching through the bitter flour. No point keeping it now.

He straightened himself, his hand resting on his sword. If he was going to die, he would at least make sure he took a few of those bastards with him to Hell. He strode forward, weaving towards the urgent garbled cries echoing around him.

He almost ran into the cobbled street, ready to drop is pack and fight whoever had the misfortune of coming first.

He stopped, there were people in the square, about fifty with more filtering in from side streets. Everyone was running around, arms waving, they were running to each other, shouting, smiling, pointing, crying, preying. He looked around him dazed, so much noise, after weeks of nothing but a small cough, a whimper, a sob. He didn't know what was happening, had the whole town dissolved into pathetic hysteria? It was too much, his cloudy mind couldn't understand it.

He grabbed a scrawny boy as he ran past. 'What is it?' he asked in halting Dutch. 'Have they come?' He demanded.

The little boy looked up wild eyed. He shook his head feverishly and pointed up at the gates. 'The Torch!' He almost shouted 'They have lit the torch, the siege is over, they have withdrawn!'

Henry blinked, _What?_ Disbelief wrapped around him. He looked up to where the boy was pointing. A huge metal cradle that sat atop the battlements had been lit, firewood blazing away sending a huge plume of black smoke into the freezing air.

It was joined by another at the next tower along, then the other beyond, disappearing behind the roofs around him, signalling to all that it was over. It was a signal to the survivors, the flames where saluting all those still alive: _Well done, we will live!_ It promised to all.

The Muscovites had given up? He was saved? Henry dropped his pack by his feet, letting his sword clang to the ground, forgotten. He didn't dare take his eyes from that unbelievable fire. _He would live, today wasn't his last day. _He laughed, dropping to his knees in relief. He was safe. Slowly he folded himself over, clasping his dirty hands onto his grimy face.

'Thank You.' He whispered to the ground. _He would live._

* * *

Hal smiled. He wondered softly what had happened to that sword. Probably buried under centuries of soil by now, or melted down by one of it's next owners. He had forgotten all about it when he was turned. Who needed a sword when he had become the deadlier weapon of all? He'd been unstoppable, indefatigable. Such heady early days of chaos.

He mind flicked to John Mitchell. Such a raw bundle of energy; a natural gift for chaos. Reputations were made by a mixture of rumour, myth and fact. With Mitchell it was clear the facts could stand by themselves.

There was a tentative knock on his door.

'Come in.' he said, not moving his eyes from the fire.

'My Lord.' It was Jeremy, one of Fergus' loyal if unremarkable recruits. He felt rather than saw the low bow. _Hero worship, how sweet_. 'I did as you asked.'

'Well?' he asked.

'Four my Lord. A maid just down the road from here. Then a man he buried in the park and two more that ended up in the river.'

_Four, impressive._ 'What happened to the maid?' he asked.

'Put down the underground coal bunker of number 45 my Lord.'

Hal chuckled. So he had tried to hide them. And given the time of year, the coal bunker was an ingenious idea. _Maybe this one did have potential._ 'Did he see you?'

'No my Lord, I kept away and followed him home.'

Hal nodded slowly but said nothing, a couple of minutes later he heard the man step out, the door closing silently behind him.

_So, a killing machine who had enough intelligence to be aware and take advantage of his surroundings. That was one thing that had been lacking with the reports on John Mitchell; could he think for himself?_ _Maybe._

There was another knock on the door, this time firmer.

Hal sighed, 'Come.'

It was Fergus. Hal turned his head, raising his eye brows as a prompt.

'Yes, Fergus?'

'My Lord' Fergus growled with a slight duck of the head, 'Edgar Wyndham has arrived.'


	4. A Request

**Right this setting the story as we go forward. **

**Thanks everyone for the reviews.**

**As always, I wil put the character back in their boxes once I am done playing with them with not even a scratch, I promise Toby!**

* * *

'What kind of fucking name is Jovian anyway.' Mumbled a disgruntled Mitchell as he thumped himself down in one of the reception room chairs he'd been led into. He was tired, his back hurt and he was pissed Herrick had called him in here and not let him punch Seth a few times. 'Sounds queer. Ow!' Mitchell yelped. Herrick had taken a swift swipe to the back of his head as he went passed him.

'Bloody Hell Herrick it isn't school ya know.'

'If you act like a child I will have to treat you like one.' Herrick clipped back as he walked over to the window. He was less than impressed that his number two had his order for Mitchell to go visit the London Head for a while had been met with this resounding lack of interest and respect.

Mitchell yawned and stretched out his long legs lazily. This chair was really comfortable, all that was needed was a… he leaned forward awkwardly and reached behind him to the cushion… there, that felt better, he sighed and lay back. His eyes were heavy and his head was filled with lovely deep red clouds.

'_Mitchell_?' Broke through Herrick's irritated voice. _Jesus, I'd almost forgotten about him. Why couldn't he just let me sleep._ Mitchell opened his eyes and glared at his maker.

Herrick was fuming at him. 'Mitchell, you think I want to deal with you when you're…' he looked over him with distain. '_drunk_? You're completely unmanageable.' Mitchell scowled.

'So don't.' Mitchell glared back. Herrick remained frozen, eyes locked. Mitchell was the first to look away.

'I have to leave Mitchell, right now. I have business to attend to back home and thanks to your all night London binging, I have no choice but to talk to you now.'

Mitchell shrugged exasperated. He gave in, he always had to give in with Herrick. 'Fine.' He said throwing his hands up. 'Why do I need to go visit Jovan?'

Herrick blinked but let the mis-pronounced name slide, at least he was asking the right questions. 'You have to go see_ Jovian'_ He stressed the name. Mitchell nodded in compliance. 'Because I need you to keep an eye on him.'

Mitchell blinked. He knew his head of swimming but he felt like a beat had been missed out. He stared blankly at Herrick.

Herrick walked over to a decanter that was placed in a round table in the corner, poured himself a small sherry glass of blood and then came towards Mitchell, unbuttoned his pin-striped suit he'd changed into and sat down opposite him. Mitchell's eyes instantly went to the glass. He wasn't full but Jesus that looked tasty. He licked his lips.

Herrick ignored it. 'My conversation with Hal after you left didn't quite go as I had expected.' He began. 'Needless to say it was less of an interview, and more of a…' he looked round awkwardly. 'Request.'

'A request?' Mitchell asked trying to hide his incredulity. 'He asked you for a favour?'

'Yes.' Said Herrick, it was clear he was taking no pleasure in telling Mitchell. 'To have an Old One like Hal Yorke ask a favour of you will pay dividends in the future. I could hardly refuse.' He cleared his throat. 'Apparently Jovian has some high up friends. These rumours that he is on his way out have caused concern, before a decision is made, they want to find out why they have formed in the first place.'

Mitchell nodded slowly, his eyes wandered.

'It is known that I have a good relationship with London.' Herrick continued, as he traced the grooves in the cut glass with a manicured finger. 'And it was thought that I would be the best person to approach. Seeing as I would be motivated towards keeping Jovian around rather than having to deal with a replacement.'

Mtichell sniggered 'So they never thought of you as his successor then.'

Herrick eyes snapped up. 'Apparently not.' He said coldly. Mitchell swallowed. Last time Herrick had given him that look, a minute later his jaw had been broken.

Mitchell backed off. 'So I'm to see what's happening with him then.' He ventured.

'Exactly.' Herrick nodded. 'They want to know why there are rumours and if they have any foundation. Unfortunately,' he added as he took a large gulp, 'All anyone knows is that things in London have slowed down. But no one knows why.'

'How'dya mean?' Mitchell asked. He'd always liked a mystery.

Herrick shrugged. 'Little things. The recruitment figures over the past twenty years have gone down significantly. So has the death rate. It's been whispered that Jovian is somehow responsible.'

He stood up as the sound of a car halting outside the house reached their ears. Mitchell followed. 'Stay close to him. Watch him. Don't shoot your mouth off and don't ask too many questions.' Herrick concluded. 'I have sent a message that I want him to look after you while I'm away as a favour to me.'

'For how long?' Mitchell asked suspicious.

'A week.' Mitchell Stared. Herrick crossed to the door, and opened it. 'Be his friend Mitchell,' He said simply, He turned, his eyes meeting Mitchell and holding them 'I'm counting on you.' Mitchell looked down at the floor and nodded. He heard rather than saw the door close as Herrick left the room.

_Jesus! Fuck!_ Mitchell swung around, hot was rage and frustrating humiliation. He slammed both hands onto the back of his chair, picking it up and throwing it to the floor in pieces. He had been a vampire for 30 fucking years! He was in his fifties for Christ's sake and he was still being treated like a fucking child by Herrick. He was always following orders he didn't give a fuck about. He didn't want to go to see this ponce Jovian in this fucking dust filled bombsite of the city. Hal had asked Herrick, why couldn't he do the fucking job?

He almost screamed in frustration. He looked around the room wildly. He wanted to tear it apart with his hands. He wanted to find someone, preferably someone young, with their whole bleeding futures in front of them. He wanted to dig his fingernails into their chest and break open their ribcage like book. He needed to revel in the cracking crunch of the bone and the crying splinter of the arteries as rubbery organs stretched and fell out onto his seething body wetting his face with warm, gorgeous life's blood. He wanted them to feel useless against him, he needed that satisfaction.

'Oh, and Mitchell,'

Mitchell froze. Herrick's came back into the room, this time wearing a travel coat and hat. Herrick looked at the remains of the chair but said nothing. Mitchell cursed himself, he was sure his face would have gone pink if it could: Herrick had seen his tantrum.

'I've told him you will be there at 7 tonight at his establishment in Soho. Don't be late.' And with that Herrick was gone. 'And don't let me down.'

Mitchell blinked and nodded. Soho. Well at least he could get a good lay or two while there and plenty of time to sleep and get presentable. He took a calming breath, easing his nerves. Yes, a quick sleep and then a good hard fuck would make everything better, maybe this assignment wouldn't be so bad.

* * *

As Mitchell was driven through the streets of Central London he felt a lot more relaxed than that morning. He was in a suit granted, but this one was a lot more manageable for him, immaculately tailored but not starched to within an inch of its life like last night's. It was a simple three piece, and in it he was just a simple businessman, on his way to have a drink with company in Soho.

He leaned back against the comfortable leather seats and breathed out, taking his eyes away from the people and buildings – or gaps where they had been bombed, and leaned his head back. He was more relaxed now. The sleep had cleared his head, the blood had softened his edges and his back was back to normal. It had helped that when he had emerged from his room for some brunch around 11 he had been told by a very amiable Corrigan – a recruit from '37 that Herrick had taken that little pimp-squeak Seth with him. There was only him, Corrigan and Thomas, who was currently driving, left in London. Both didn't have to be told who was in charge now that Herrick had gone.

Mitchell didn't care much for hierarchy, and he was never a fan of having his arse kissed or doing the same, but being the top of this reduced pyramid lent him a certain amount of freedom he planned to take full advantage of. _Once that is_, He thought as his eyes darkened and two frown lines appeared between his eyes, _this Jovian business is done_.

He figured all he needed to do was turn up, have a chat, and form an opinion. The whole thing could take a couple of hours, if there were particularly lovely ladies around, a night tops, then he could spend the rest of his week in London to himself. As far as Thomas and Corrigan were concerned, Mitchell would be dropped off and picked up in Soho, what he did there they didn't need to know, and would be too afraid to ask.

Mitchell looked at the back of Thomas' head. 'Oi, Tommy,' he called. 'What's this fella Jovian like then?' he said leaning forward a bit. Thomas was the local Bristol record keeper, head full of what Mitchell considered to be mindless political shite but Mitchell was under no illusions, he wasn't going to go in blind, and he had been too out of it to ask Herrick anything useful before.

Thomas cleared his throat as he turned the car wheel around Parliament Square up Whitehall. 'Basic stuff if ya could,' Mitchell pre-empted holding up a hand, Thomas could go on sometimes.

'Basic tings?' Asked Thomas, his Jamaican accent pronounced.

'Yeah, and _me_ basic, not _you_ basic, I don't need my head to explode.' Mitchell grinned.

He saw Thomas' cheeks crease into a smile. Thomas respected Mitchell and the feeling was mutual, he was one of the few that Mitchell would happily choose to go for a pint with. Thomas had come over from the Caribbean just after the Great War, a huge hulking tower of a creature, descended from sugar cane slaves, he had stuck out the minute he had stepped off the boat, and treated worse than the Irish were Mitchell mused. But if there was one race who knew that differences like colour were only skin deep, it was the vampires. He'd been recruited by sheer luck, but he had come to be part of Herrick's circle because of his unique skill set; him memory. He had such an intimidating mind for knowledge that he never had to write anything down. A walking encyclopaedia on anything from Vampire lore to knitting patterns, he was exactly what Mitchell needed right now.

'Fine,' chuckled Thomas. 'Basic stuff, just for you.' Mitchell inclined his head. 'He's around three hundred. Came from London originally, but left for Europe for a long time. He came back here the end of last century and has been running tings ever since.'

'What?' Said Mitchell, 'Just straight in?'

'Yes, he was called, he came, simple.'

'You met him once right? What's he like?'

Thomas paused. 'I don't know. He can be very quiet, and he can be very loud. He thinks a lot-'

'Ahh, not another one of 'em thinkers.' Mitchell groaned dramatically with a grin.

'A friend to everyone, but close to few.' Thomas continued.

'How'd he and Herrick become close mates then.' Asked Mitchell. This guy didn't sound like someone Herrick would warm to.

Thomas shrugged and glanced out the side window to the National Gallery as they went passed up Charring Cross Road. 'Through Hettie.'

There was a pause as Thomas continued to drive, apparently done.

'That's it?' Said Mitchell. 'C'mon Tommy, Herrick musta told ya?' He saw Thomas glance into the rear-view mirror – a pointless exercise for them both.

'Herrick made you Mitchell,' He reminded him as he looked back at the road. 'All those years just the two of you, he never mentioned anything?'

'No,' Mitchell said leaning further forward. He hardly knew anything about Herrick's recruiter, almost all his stories excluded that elusive child-like vampire, Mitchell had always wondered why. 'He's told me nothing.'

Thomas chuckled. 'Then why would he tell me?'

Mitchell punched the back on Thomas' shoulder. 'Fucker,' he growled good-naturedly. 'I thought you had something juicy there.'

Thomas slowed the car to a stop and turned around. 'Alas not this time.' He indicated the doorway they had parked in front of. 'But if you find out, you'll let me know yes?' He grinned, huge white teeth against ebony skin and twinkling black eyes. Mitchell smiled back, he couldn't help it.

'Alright big guy.' Mitchell said as he threw the door open the pushed himself out. 'I'll call if I need ya.'

Thomas nodded and pulled away, leaving Mitchell to stand on his own, straitening his suit and checking his short hair was still where he left it. Mitchell looked around. He stood on Great Windmill Street, faint sounds of music and laughter bubbling up from behind closed doors. The smell of dirt, dust and humans all around him.

He turned to the doorway in front of him. Painted a rich French blue. A small sign above it saying only the number 6. Between him and the door stood what Mitchell could describe as a man, but 'brick shite house' came more accurately to mind. Mitchell sniffed, _A human brick shite house_.

He sauntered up to him and put on his best poker face. 'I'm here to see Jovian.'

The bouncer moved from one foot to the other and looked him over. Mitchell noticed the slight gulp and flutter of his pulse. He was definitely in the right place is a man this size knew to be scared when faced with someone almost half his width. He smiled, letting his iris' darken ever so slightly.

The man looked away, stepped back nervously and knocked on the door. He whispered to the man who opened a rectangular spy hole. They both looked at him. Mitchell just raised his eyebrow and the door swung wide open.

'Please, come in.' Said the man on the other side of the threshold.

Mitchell chuckled as he went passed the doorman. _Better than a password any day._

* * *

**Okay, As I said, let me know. I love your reveiw, they always brighten my day! Next chapter we will meet Jovian! And Have a little Hal too for funsies!**


	5. Snow White and Prince Charming

**Okay, Chapter 5. Yay! I will be adding more chapters soon but am about to be a little bit busy for the next week.**

**Toby is my lord and master, he owns all, not me. no one is paying me to write this, although if anyone wishes to pay me to stop, I may consider it! :-P**

**Reviiws are welcome, thanks so much to everyone for their words!**

**Spotting spelling and typos are also welcome and they always bug me when I see thme! (hehe)**

* * *

Hal glided into the reception room where just hour earlier he had welcomed his two guests from Bristol.

'Edgar' he said with false enthusiasm, 'Such a nice surprise!' he spread his hands open wide in welcome, but wouldn't touch his fellow Old One.

Edgar gave back a thin smile in mock greeting. Standing in the middle of the room, ignoring the furniture or the glass of freshly poured blood he had been given. 'Henry,' he replied in greeting. 'You are doing well.'

It wasn't a question.

Hal smiled back and chuckled. 'That I am,' he confirmed, walking over to the chairs. He noted how Edgar hesitated before following, 'Yourself?'

Edgar surveyed the chair circle he had been led to, he flicked his eyes once to Hal, who stared back with dark challenging eyes. He gave a grudging smile back and decided to perch on the edge of the least unconformable looking chair.

Hal smiled back and placed himself down opposite, pouring into the chair like it was the most comfortable things around. It wasn't, but he wanted Wyndham to think he had lost the chair roulette this night. They had never really got on; Hal thought he was a pompous slimy greaser, happy to always be an enforcer, jealous of his high standing that only age can bring.

'Wonderfully, thank you for asking.' Came his response with a spreading Cheshire-cat grin. Hal's face remained calm, but inside his stomach froze. Wyndham saw Hal as a jumped up child that had been given far too much for one who hadn't spent years paying his dues.

Hal blinked, if Edgar Wyndham was happy, then this wasn't good news for him. He remained silent. He wasn't about to give Edgar anything, let alone an intro.

'Yes,' Edgar began looking around the room, a little irritated that Hal hadn't asked him why. 'I have just come from a very interesting telephone conversation with Mr Snow.' His eyes flicked to Hal, just for a second. 'Regarding Jovian.'

* * *

Mitchell was escorted down a dark narrow corridor by the silent doorman. Mitchell didn't like the silence, he never liked silence.

'So where's this Jovian hiding?' He asked, his companion said nothing. 'This the back entrance to the club then?' Again, nothing. 'Jesus, you weren't recruited for your chat were ya!' He said exasperated. 'Or ya looks mate,' he muttered under his breath. The man turned around to look at Mitchell square in the eye. 'Too far?' Mitchell said lightly with an innocent smile.

The man leaned forward and stretched his hand out behind him, knocking twice on the wall, Mitchell leaned back, not entirely sure what was happening.

He heard a click and a burst of music and noise as a secret black door was opened from the other side. The doorman stayed in place glaring inches from Mitchell's face. 'You goin' in for a kiss there mate?' Mitchell asked suspiciously.

'Hardly,' Came a firm female drawl from behind Mitchell's would-be kisser. The man stepped aside and made a small bow. 'You're not his type darling.' Mitchell blinked at what stepped out behind him.

There, standing no higher than Mitchell's shoulder was what could only described as the most exquisite girl he had ever seen. He had been told fairytales as a child by his mam, and he had gone to the cinema often enough in Bristol so he knew instantly who was in front of him.

The girl smiled widely with full lips the colour of the red, red rose and skin as pale as snow. She extended her hand forward and Mitchell took it, marvelling at the alabaster smoothness. 'Call me Snow sugar,' she winked, leading him through the second door towards the noise beyond, tossing her thick black hair over her shoulder as she went.

'I'm Mitchell.' He whispered, allowing himself to be taken wherever she took him.

'I know,' she purred.

He looked around, they were in a large ex-music hall. They had come in through the side entrance near the stage that extended out into the audience like a runway. All the theatre chairs had been replaced by red velvet chairs and small round black tables. Everywhere was dark wood, black walls and columns, gilded carvings and huge swathes of red curtains all the way back.

Mitchell looked up as they skirted around the bubbling noise of diamond encrusted women and Dinner Jacketed man swilling champagne as beautiful and scantily clad dancers performed Mata-Hari inspired routines all over the protruding stage. Above hung the largest crystal chandelier Mitchell had ever seen, glittering with gas lights, it looked like someone had grabbed all the stars in the sky and pushed them together into one small shimmering ball of heaven.

He felt a soft tug on his hand as Snow took him round to another entrance that led above.

_Focus_ he thought, kicking himself. He was acting like a fuck country boy. He looked at Snow's back as she led him up the red carpeted staircase. 'Where are you taking me Snow?' He said in a low amused voice. 'Why do I feel like I'm following bread crumbs to the witches house?'

She turned around and laughed, her deep blue eyes meeting his for a brief beautiful second before going down to his hand and giving it a firmer pull. 'You got your fairytales all mixed up honey,' she said, her accent was strange, Anglicized Western American. 'I'm taking you to Prince Charming.'

They reached the landing that lead to the circle, she gave his hand another tug as she moved away from them towards the royal box that worked along the wall. 'This way.'

Mitchell looked her up and down. Snow was wearing very little and he was surprised he'd not appreciated this fact first. It was the Disney Princess colours of red, blue and yellow, but Snow White would never had worn a dress so short that her white suspender belt could be so easily unhitched under the thin layers of silken fabric, or so tight that it looked all but her spine had been push either down to her beautiful perfect rear or up to her ample breasts that were kept from spilling out by little more than a thin layer of white lace. Mitchell involuntarily wiped his mouth, this was one beautiful vampire.

He stopped dead, halfway down the empty corridor and pulled back. Snow was caught off guard and snapped backwards into Mitchell's waiting arms. He closed his hands around her waist, Jesus, he could almost meet his own fingers round her middle. His thumbs stroked her tummy. 'What's the rush Snow?' he asked. God he wanted her. One hand left her tiny waist and moved up to her arm, casually stroking her bare cool skin. His eyes met hers in the half-light of the gas sconces, she looked serious, but not angry.

'Careful Mitchell,' she warned, her head tilting backwards as his came down. His lips came down hungrily and she met him with equal desire. Her lips were soft as clouds, but her teeth were sharp and tongue nimble, he was shocked, he'd had fast girls before, but this one was ferocious, her tongue flicked and played with his, never giving him a firm purchase, her teeth nipped playfully at his lips until he tasted blood which she gleefully sucked. His grip on her waist tightened and he pulled her towards him then pushed her hard she hit the wall with a thud. She gasped and pushed his back. Both were panting, she looked at him up and down, hurt and lust all over her face. 'Well look at you big boy,' she gasped, she blinked and the deep blue changed to the predator black that Mitchell returned. Both grinned hungrily as her hand went up to the back of his hair and pulled his head down to hers again.

Mitchell heard a creak of a floorboard off to his right but ignored it. He didn't give a fuck who was watching. The creak was followed by someone clearing their throat loudly. Snow froze, and slowly pulled apart from Mitchell. Her head turned toward the maker of the noise and her eyes fell to the floor, she pushed Mitchell gently away and stepped away from the wall. Mitchell blinked, he was breathless, he was confused and part of him was furious.

He straightened up and turned to follow where Snow had looked. Standing in the doorframe of the Royal box's entrance stood a tall, thin man, taller than Mitchell although just as dark in complexion. His head was slightly bowed as he looked at both of them, his eyebrows raised above dark lashed eyes. Mitchell froze. _Bugger, Jovian._

'You call this 'fetching' do you Snow?' said a clipped voice.

Snow pulled away from Mitchell and walked slowly towards the dark figure. She clenched her hands behind her back and walked forward, wiggling her hips as she swerved one foot in front of the other. 'I'm sorry,' she purred, sounding anything but. 'You know what I'm like with pretty things Carl.'

_Carl? This guy is called Carl?_ Thought Mitchell with a pop of relief, _So not Jovian then, thank Christ._ For all Mitchell's airs of nonchalance, he didn't want to create the wrong impression.

Carl reached out for Snows' hand, which she gave with exaggerated coyness. Carl bent down and kissed it, returning the grin Snow was giving him. 'One day you are going to have to learn to do as you're told.' He said.

'Yes Carl,' She sang smiling up at him. Carl's eyes creased into the genuine warm smile before his gaze flicked to Mitchell, who had remained awkwardly in place a few feet away. Carl's smile widened, but any warmth he may have shown to Snow had left his eyes. Mitchell returned the smile with equal insincerity.

'Mr John Mitchell I presume,' said Carl stepping forward and at the same time leading Snow through the door behind him. 'It's so nice to finally meet you, please call me Carl.'

Mitchell took the proffered hand and gave it a quick shake. It wouldn't do to look wary, but something wasn't right here. He looked at Carl carefully. He was a vampire, that was for sure, but there was something off. His skin felt paper thin, like there was nothing but air flowing underneath it, the grip was firm, but not strong. He looked… Mitchell thought… Delicate. And he had never met a vampire before who looked like that.

'Just Mitchell.' He said automatically. He cleared his throat not really knowing what to do next.

Carl was studying him too. Mitchell didn't like it, he never had but it was one of the things you get being a celebrity so he waited. Finally Carl blinked, seemed to regain himself and flashed a wider if not warmer smile before stepping back and indicating the door. 'Please, Mitchell, won't you come inside.'

The royal box was larger and longer than most and had probably once been two separate ones when the Music Hall was in use. Red velvet walls and thick matching carpet, studded by gilded candelabras and small electric lights highlighted the party in the centre of the space. There were six seats, all arm chairs of wood with coverings of velvet. Mitchell scanned them all as he entered. Snow had worked her way around the four three that were seated, kissing first a girl with cascading blonde hair and matching sapphire eyes in a very similar outfit to hers. Then she went over and greeted with a double kiss a very young looking blonde haired boy who sat in the corner, his features were almost doll-like in their exquisite femininity. Snow whispered into his ear as she took the spare seat to his left, the boy looked at Mitchell and chuckled. Mitchell's eyes narrowed but moved on his other side was also free, although the half drunk glass of win on the round table indicated it was taken.

There were two other seats, one empty facing Snow, in the other sat a wide set gentleman in spats and wire frame glasses with wide set eyes and a strong jaw decorated by a neatly clipped beard. His eyes were dark and untrusting. Bizarrely, Mitchell was reminded of the fat banker he'd buried in the park the night before only twenty years younger. That thought made Mitchell's mouth twitch in amusement.

'Please,' said Carl behind him, indicating the one free chair. Mitchell undid his suit jacket button and sat down. Carl smiled down at him, 'Let me introduce you to the table.' He said his arms outstretched. He walked around as he went 'On your right is Francois,' the beard nodded his head, eyes dark and stern. 'Here is the gorgeous Adelle.' He said squeezing the shoulder of the blonde to Mitchell's left. She flashed him a professional smile very similar to Snow's but a little bit more predatory.

'Pleasure,' she purred in a soft Russian accent lifting her hand to be kissed. Mitchell obliged, looking her up and down as he smiled darkly back. Yes there was nothing to complain about there.

Carl continued around to Snow. 'I believe you are acquainted with our Snow.' He said. The blonde boy smiled, Mitchell blinked at the youth as realization edged towards him the closer Carl got to the last sitter. 'And this,' he said, 'Is Jovian.'

Mitchell stared at the blonde boy, Jovian stared back.

* * *

**Yaay, Carl is here too now. It felt right to add him, you will see (if you haven't already guessed) why later.**


	6. A Night at 6

**Right, this one comes with a warning, there is some graphic racey content. - not as bad as 50 shades though, I aint that good!**

**Thanks all those who are sticking with this. I really enjoy writing this!**

**As no one has paid me to stop, I have continued. I have received nothing for this and own nothing here. I've even borrowed characters from Disney (shame on me)**

**It seems I'm back to my epic chapters too. Will try and be shorter next time. Got a bit carried away!**

* * *

Mitchell was nicely relaxed and thoroughly enjoying himself in the Royal Box of Club 6 – as it was called. He had no idea what the time was, there were no visible clocks, watches or windows onto the world outside, it could have been one hour, it could have been twenty.

He raised his new cocktail – something yellow with flecks of gold leaf swirling around it as the group jovially toasted for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. He smiled a genuine smile that was reflected in all around him. His eyes met Jovian's from across the table who winked back at him with his twinkling eyes, his hand resting comfortably in his companion Carl's.

It hadn't taken Mitchell long to realise that Jovian and Carl were lovers. They shared a soft intimacy that only came from adoring someone for years, Jovian's natural vivacity seemed to be complimented by the natural calm of Carl. Mitchell didn't mind, as far as he was concerned, removing the only other good-looking men from the equation meant more attention from Snow and the lovely Adelle. And boy was he getting attention.

He flicked a glance at the broad shouldered Francois. As far as he could tell he was straight, but the French vampire had said little all night, seeming to be in a great haze of absinth and cigar smoke. Occasionally he would raise his head and burst into song, or a line from a poem or whatever was on his mind so passionately that everyone stopped talking to watch. Mitchell had no idea what he said but from what Adelle translated, it was as bizarre as he'd though and invariably resulted in the rest of the table collapsing into peals of laugher as Francois slumped back into unconsciousness. 'Don't mind him,' said Carl after Mitchell had forgotten to disguise his alarm at another snatch of songs. 'He's always like this. Though I'm surprised he knows Yvette Guilbert, frightfully modern for him.' He added.

'Hasn't been sober for longer than a day since they took his chateau in the Revolution.' Elaborated Snow.

Francois belched.

Mitchell's eyes widened, 'The French Revolution?'

Snow nodded.

'He'd tell you himself if he could,' added Jovian who signalled for another round to be handed out.

Mitchell shook his head. 'My French isn't that good.'

'Maybe not, but his English in excellent.' Jovian gave a sidelong look at the slumped Frenchman, 'When he remembers it.'

Mitchell smiled down at his drink – orangy in taste with a kick of champagne and something bitter – probably bitters. He didn't know what it was but the drinks had gone into double figures very early on, not to mention the shots in between, so he didn't really care. He looked up again, the fast-paced chit-chat had moved on yet again.

'And there he was standing as naked as the day he was born,' continued Jovian in full swing. 'Pretending as if being so attired having just crashed through our bedroom window, was as natural as walking through Hyde Park!'

The whole table roared, including Mitchell. Jovian took a gulp from his glass and pointed to Snow. 'I tell you, no one dared come near you for a whole year after that.'

Snow raised her shoulders and shook her head. 'That's what he gets for calling me a whore while I'm promenading in Burlington Arcade.' She declared. 'I don't care who His Highness is. He's just lucky that's all I did.'

'But darling,' said Jovian leaning forward earnestly. 'You _are_ a whore.'

Snow leaned in closer. 'Not when I'm promenading in Burlington Arcade.'

Both smiled darkly at each other and laughed.

The group's conversation had run as fast as the drinks, hopping between theatre, modern music, art (He hadn't joined in that much on that one) to titillating tales of famous people that those around the table knew for various scandalous reasons. There had been no mention of blood, or tales of violent exploits that usually circulated when vampires got together. Mitchell had found it odd to begin with, but after God knew how many blurry hours he understood that to bring up something like that would be viewed as vulgar.

The whole attitude of the club was as if the days as 'Bright Young Things' of the 20s and 30s had never left, and Mitchell wasn't about to break the spell and say otherwise.

'Right.' Snow announced after slamming down her empty glass and looking over at Mitchell. 'I believe I've been polite enough now.'

'I think we left polite conversation behind at the first drink.' Laughed Jovian, who play-flinched as Snow hit him on the arm.

'I'm not talking about conversation Jovian.' She chastised. 'I'm talking about me having to sit here next to boring old you and letting Adelle have Mitchell all to herself.' She gave a playful glare at the blonde. 'It's my turn.'

Adelle shrugged carelessly. 'I'm not the one who made Francois the Seating Master. You know the rules, no changing until he says so.'

'Francois is beyond saying anything anymore.' She turned to Jovian and pouted her best baby-doll smile; all eyes and lips. 'Come on Jovi.'

'Say please.' Said Adelle, placing an obvious hand on Mitchell's knee.

Snow's head snapped around and she glared. 'I don't say please.' She said through gritted teeth.

Jovian looked between the two with raised eyebrows, a small smile creasing the side of him mouth. He looked over at Mitchell and grinned. Next to him Carl frowned.

'Alright ladies,' Jovian said. 'You win Snow.' He leaned back, closed his eyes and raised his hands with great dramatic solemnity, like a high priest to his congregation. 'By the power vested in me as The Head of London, I remove the role of Seating Master from Monsieur Francois Orlean-' at this Francois stirred, blinked, then slid further down his chair with a mutter. '-and hereby grant authority to this most noble of offices unto Mistress Snow White.'

He opened his eyes. 'Happy?'

Snow beamed. 'Always.' She put her hands on Jovians arm and leaned in for a small kiss on his cheek. She then turned to Adelle who simply sighed before looking around the table. 'Move.' She commanded.

Everyone stood up, Mitchell a little shakily and started to move around the table. Snow stepped over and grabbed Mitchell's hand as he made his way around. 'Where do you think you're going?' she asked mischievously.

Mitchell blinked. 'To another seat?'

He saw Jovian and Carl out of the corner of his eye smile and lean towards each other. Then he looked down at the small porcelain Disney doll in front of him. Jesus he wanted her, he remembered the fire of the hallway and suddenly his mouth felt very dry. Snow looked up at Mitchell, he blue eyes swallowing him in one ravenous bite, she smiled and her eyes darkened wickedly. 'Oh no John,' she cooed, 'Our seats aren't in this room anymore.'

Mitchell looked at the other guests, who similarly hadn't sat down again – or in Francois' case, moved at all. Adelle was currently leaning over the edge of the balcony at the crowd below, exposing her round tight rear as she did. Jovian and Carl were whispering together, Carl stroking his lover's young looking face with genuine love. Jovian looked over and grinned at them. 'Say goodnight Mitchell.' He joked.

Carl and Adelle turned to Mitchell too and, like little children waved at him and Snow. 'Goodnight Mitchell.' They sang before everyone dissolved into giggles.

Mitchell's face creased into a smile as he was turned around towards the door by a persistent Snow, giving a small wave as he went.

* * *

He didn't remember how he got into the room with the huge four poster wooden ben with dark blue covers, he thought it was up some stairs and down a wide corridor, through a couple of doors and past quite possibly an indoor fountain, but that was the furthest thing from his mind at that point.

Snow pushed him down onto the bed so he sat on the edge, both hands resting on the silk coverings next to his discarded jacket. She looked down at him for a second and stroked the side of his head. He leaned forward and tried to take her hand but she moved it too quickly and started walking away to the edge of the room and paused by a table.

Mitchell was about to protest when he heard the scratch and crackle of a gramophone bursting into life and the sound of a guitar being strummed as a male voice began to sing.

Snow's body swayed to the music, circling her hips as her hands worked around her body, in the halflight Mitchell seemed to be completely forgotten. After a beat, she turned around and fixed Mitchell with her eyes, moving slowly towards him in time to the music. Her hands went up to the bow tying her hair, releasing it to cascade down her back in soft unbelievable waves. She smiled at him and ran both her hands through her hair, then back to her face, down her white cheeks to her neck then down over her breasts to her tiny waist and below. Her feet wound one in front of the other in ever wider circles until she was before him again. She closed her eyes, her fingers working down her tiny skirt and then lifting it up away to where her fingers wanted to go between her legs.

Mitchell breathed hard he saw her stand there, a couple of feet from him, her eyes fluttering under thick lashes, her hands moving slowly between her legs. He got up and stalked towards Snow, head down keeping her in full view. She opened her eyes as he came closer and a small smile crept on her dark red lips. He wanted to crush them, to bite them and suck out her blood just like she had done to him. But not yet. Instead he circled around behind her, snaking his hands along her waist, stroking the soft fabric. His fingers on one hand trailed down her arm until he found where they rested, still caressing herself. With his other hand, he pushed the hair away from her neck and gently bent down to kiss the smooth cool skin of her throat and shoulder.

Snow placed a hand on the side of his cheek so he turned his head and opened his mouth, licking her fingers, tasting her. He moved closer, pressing himself against the small of her back so felt how hard he was as his fingers continued to explore. She arched her spine in reply and let out a little moan, turning to face him, seeking out his mouth with hers, her hands undoing his shirt buttons with deft skill. He ran his hands behind her back and found the clips to her skirt, pulling them free. They moved towards the bed, Snow stepping out of the skirt and Mitchell shrugging off first his braces, then his tie and then his shirt, leaving them forgotten on the floor.

The bed hit the back of Snow's legs and brought them both of a shuddering halt. Both broke apart, staring at each other and panting. Mitchell leaned in again but Snow quickly hooked her leg around his and twirl away, making him twist with her and overbalance, landing on the bed with a bounce. She stood above his sprawled body, a small smile playing on her lips as she slowly undid her small top one bow at a time until it fell open revealing a ruby red and black boned corset laced tight just below breasts that stood proud and firm untethered.

Mitchell inhaled, there she was, every adult male's fantasy; Snow White as only Prince Charming would have seen on their wedding night; below her corset was a matching lace suspender belt that crept down her hips and pantie-less front, clipping up sheer white stockings that ended in navy blue satin heels.

She reached behind her, between her shoulder blades to undo the knot that held the corset in place.

'Leave it.' He rasped. She looked at him, an eyebrow raised. 'Leave it on.'

Her smile increased and her arms dropped. She leaned forward, resting her small hands on his thigh. She bent her legs, never breaking eye contact until she was crouched between his legs, only her head and shoulders visible above the bed.

'Is that what you want John?' She asked. It was the first words she had said since entering the room. Mitchell nodded slowly. She smiled again, her hands sliding down to his ankles and then down to his shoes, one hand undoing the knot on each foot and removing shoes and socks in one fluid movement. She then knelt down and leaned so her stomach was against the bed, her breasts between his thighs. She walked her hands one finger at a time up his trousers until they spread out around his waist. She looked down at the hard creases below her hand and then back up at him. She un-popped one button slowly, then the other, then the other until she had what she wanted. She lowered her head, parted her lips and licked.

The man on the gramophone wailed about some demon hounds, the thick thump of his guitar providing a rhythm that was the only pulse in the room. Mitchell lay back and let the music wash over him, at the raw thrum of guitar stings, young deep voice and deep Afican-American beats. He looked down at the swath of black hair that now covered his entire torso, a white hand resting on his dark chest. His leg twitched; he was never one to just lie there no matter how amazing and mind-blowing this promised to be. He took her hand, pulled in lightly and sat up, causing her to raise her hair and look up at his face. He grinned back. 'Not yet precious.' He whispered, putting both hands around her waist and effortlessly lifting her up off the ground. She wrapped her legs around him but he didn't let her down, he held her above him, moving himself further off the edge of the bed. Then he slowly lowered her, until he could feel her wetness brush the tip, then he raised her again. Her eyes flashed with desire. He lowered her again, just an inch lower, then pulled her up again. She gasped in annoyance and gripped his back, digging her claw-like nails into his back. He jerked his head back and stared at her, she had leaned in close, their faces were inches apart, he could feel her breath and see her sharp white teeth. She wanted him inside her, now. She snarled at him, tightening her legs around him, but he wasn't about to give in until he was ready.

He kicked his heels back so they touched the side of the bed below him, then he pushed himself up to standing, still gripping her perfect waist as she hovered above him. She tried to pull herself down again but he stopped her, shaking his head slowly. Her eyes blazed with indignant rage. 'Patience.' he teased, as he walked her around the bed.

He moved one hand around from her waist to the front, down between her legs, slowly at first, then faster in time to the music. Her eyes closed fleetingly, she frowned and a small squeal escaped her lips. He had walked her over to the table where the gramophone sat, thumping out the deep hypnotic sounds about crossroads and blues. She was so close, her whole body was wound like a spring. He slowed and her eyes snapped open. Through panting, full swollen lips her eyes begging as he nails flexed against his shoulders. 'Please.' She whispered.

Mitchell smiled, slowly laid her down on the table, moved his hands until they rested on her hips, and pulled her towards him. She squirmed. Her hand reaching for her hair as the other raked his chest. 'Please.' She whispered again. Mitchell hands tightened, his eyes went black and in one sudden, piercingly strong move, thrust

inside her to screams of ecstacy.

* * *

**Phew, a bit racey this one. Don't get scared, it's not degenerating into a Mills&Boon. **

**I think some of the references here I wanted to highlight. Don't view it as further reading, but I just want you to know what was going through my mind at certain points.**

**Ref: Francois as I imagined it was reciting the famous French cabaret singer Yvette Guilbet (1865 – 1944). She was headliner at places like the Moulin Rouge in the 1890s. By the turn of the century though she had retired and become a writer. Francois would have seen her at the Moulin Rouge I imagine, so about 50 years ago. A long time ago, but for someone around since before the French Revolution (1789-99) quite recent.**

**The man strumming on his guitar and singing about Hellhounds and Crossroads is Robert Johnson. (1911 – 1938) A Musical miracle with a talent that seemed to come out of nowhere. It was rumoured he made a deal with the devil for his gift – I picked the two most apt songs for this – Cross Road Blues (1936) and Hellhound on My Trail (1937) I recommend his album King of the Delta Blues. See you in Hell Rob!**


	7. An Assessment

**Sorry for the gap. This is a short (for me) chapter, but I will be powering through to the others very shortly.**

**I own nothing, yaddah yaddah yaddah huzzah**!

* * *

Hal's Townhouse.

_Hal looked at Wyndham levelly._

_'Oh?' He smoothly, 'What do you want to talk about regarding Jovian?' he kept his eyes on the man in front of him but was aware a servants was waiting apprehensively in the far corner. With a smooth tilt of his finger the man rushed over, produced a glass and was filling it from the decanter. The waiter stepped back and bowed then silently melted away without his master having to say or even look at him. Hal raised his glass, his guest did the same and they both drank._

_Hal was the first to speak, 'I was unaware that you were involved.' He kept his eyes on the glass._

_'Only tangentially,' Edgar said lightly. Hal looked up eyes narrowed. 'I come baring a message.'_

_'How nice,' Hal replied coolly. There was no point asking why he hadn't been given this message over the phone; Questioning Snow never led to a long life. 'Please continue.'_

_Wyndham smiled, he rarely had the upper hand when it came to Harry Yorke and he wanted to enjoy it as much as he dared. 'He has… reviewed the situation, and believes that it need to come to a conclusion.'_

_Hal looked up. Silence._

_'May I ask Edgar,' Hal enquired slowly, 'It is not often that Snow reconsiders his orders on a situation.' He let his voice go cold. 'Am I right to surmise that he was given advice?'_

_Wyndham shrugged. 'I may have offered an opinion on the matter.'_

_'Was this opinion sought?'_

_Edgar blinked. 'Whether it was or it wasn't, I believe this decision is final.'_

_'Oh,' said Hal, 'I'm sure it is now.' The threat was clear._

_'Be reasonable,' said Edgar clearing his throat at the stillness around the man in front of him. 'Reversing the problem is academic at this point. It cannot be allowed to continue.'_

_'I have people on it.' Said Hal thinly 'I said I would handle it.'_

_'And you will be expected to.' Edgar shot back. 'He is your responsibility.'_

* * *

Mitchell woke up aching all over. His head was at an odd angle, shooting pains from his moaning spine to the catastrophe of his brain. This couldn't just be a hangover, he thought. He felt like he'd been in the epicentre of Hiroshima.

He shifted himself on the bed. A bed, not a bomb crater; that was comforting to know. At least it felt like a bed, his face was squarely down in a pillow. _Thank God I'm dead,_ he thought,_ I woulda suffocated._

He gingerly turned his head to the side, letting cool air in through his parched mouth. He swallowed, Jesus he was thirsty, tentatively opening an eye, the deep red of his lids warned him light had infested the room. He promptly slammed it shut again with a hiss, raising his hand to cover his face. He hissed again, this time at his hand, he gingerly opened his eyes a millimetre; it felt like the hand had been caught between a brick and a hard place. His fingers were caked in blood; magenta against the deep blue and purple of bruises manifesting below. _My food musta fought back,_ his fuzzy mind thought. But this seemed wrong. Where the hell was he?

He slowly lowered his hand to see what was beyond it: A big room, a big blue wreck of a room. Jesus, had he actually been in a nuclear bomb blast? That would explain the pain screaming all over him, and all... his eyes crept around… _this_.

He looked beyond the bent wooden bedpost in front of him; He'd slept under that precarious canopy? He tried to lift himself up on his elbows and let out a cough of discomfort, as his back raged in fiery objection. He blinked a few times, taking deep breaths as a wave of familiar hung-over nausea invaded his stomach. He shifted his weight and paused frowning. He was alone? He looked next to him, where normally there would be a pair of dead eyes staring back at him from an even deader body. But today, nothing.

There was an imprint of a head, a small smudge of red lipstick on the covers just above a faint splatter of familiar blood. He gave a sniff. No, it wasn't human. His head rolled, Fuck he hadn't recruited someone had he? He squeezed shut his eyes, willing the brain to kick in. As he opened them again his eyes focused on a spindly table, missing two legs – _used for stakes_? And the remains of a gramophone that lay upended on the floor, it's large metal horn dented ten feet away. He paused, the 'horn thing' –Jesus, he couldn't even remember its proper fucking name – Was half covered by a thoroughly ripped, but exquisite red and back corset. He started at it for a second, a small smile coming to his lips as the clouds parted.

_Snow White. _

Suddenly his aches and pains made satisfying sense. He looked around, where was she?

He looked around him, attempting to sit up properly but involuntarily rolling forward. He raised his knees and rested an elbow on them, cupping his forehead. He needed to pause, memories were slowly coming forward. He smiled, his eyes closed.

They had ripped each other apart. The stinging on his back were her nails. He remembered her clawing into him until his groans had changed to shouts, then withdrawing her hand to licking the deep crimson off the fingers, her eyes flicking black. He'd loved it, he'd loved every second. She was used to being on top, and so was he. They'd thrown each other around the room like rag dolls; a frenzy of blood, biting, drinking, thrusting, writhing, pushing and pulling.

_But where the Hell was she?_

He hoped it wasn't like a really bad dinner party; last one to leave gets stuck with the bill. He looked around and the expensive destroyed furnishings. _Oh, if Herrick hears about this he'll rip _me_ to fuckin' shreds, literally._

He breathed a slow sigh. He needed to move. Staying in the blood stained bed where the canopy could collapse at any second wasn't going to solve anything. He slowly turned to the nearest side of the bed, facing the huge window, he bowed his head to escape the sunlight that streamed through one side where the heavy velvet curtain had been torn down from its hanging. _Oops._

He uncoiled his legs and placed he soles of his feet on the floor, away from the small pile of glass of a fallen clock. Gathering his strength together, he balled his hands and pushed up off the bed. He stood, for a second, then the room swam, his legs crumpled and the carpet came to meet him.

He managed to avoid his nose, but there was a definite crunch as his cheek connected with the glass. _Bollocks._ Mitchell breathed. The little minx must have almost drained him dry last night, no wonder he'd slept like the dead. Next time he wouldn't show such polite restraint and take more than just a few mouthfuls. He'd have to take things very slowly…

After what felt like an age, Mitchell had found his shirt – on the back of an upturned chair, his trousers – braces still attached and his jacket. He'd found his underwear lying in half a pool of his or her blood and thought better of it: He wasn't that much of an animal. He uprighted a one armed plump chair to sit on and was halfway through navigating his buttons when there was a knock on the door.

After a polite beat, the door opened and a tall dark head peered round, swung around the room until it found Mitchell and smiled. 'How you doing there, Mitchell?' Carl asked, a grin on his clean-shaven face.

Mitchell looked around the room, but took the lack of response at it's state as indication that he wasn't about to be thrown out of it. He smiled gingerly and stood up lifting first one and then the other of his braces over his shoulders with a wince. 'Is it possible to feel the best you've ever felt when you've never felt worse?' He croaked.

Carl entered the room and put his hands in his pockets, eyebrows raised. 'Well, that is her speciality.' He commented. Mitchell looked up at him but didn't trust himself to talk. Carl's smile widened and he laughed, stepping forward. 'Everyone's downstairs, Adelle wants to take you sight seeing.' He laughed, 'Maybe after you've had something to recover from first.'

Mitchell nodded gratefully, 'Yeah, I'm starving.' He frowned, letting rubbing his sore head, 'What time's it?'

'Just after three in the afternoon.'

Mitchell flinched, _that late_? He stood up slowly using the chair-arm for support and wobbled. Carl went to put a hand on his shoulder but at the last minute Mitchell recovered. Carl looked him up and down, his smile going thin.

'Why don't you,' he began, stepping away towards a huge double oak wardrobe - the middle panel's mirror now smashed 'Put on some fresh clothes,' opening it to reveal freshly pressed and laundered gentlemen's clothes. He paused and looked at Mitchell's face and hands. 'Maybe after you have a wash.' He jumped over towards a hidden door that opened to reveal a small bath, a sink and towels. 'And join us when you're ready. I'll get someone to wait for you outside, I doubt you remember your way around after last night.'

Mitchell smiled. He couldn't help it, Carl was trying to be as polite as he could, but Mitchell knew he must look a state with day old crumpled clothes and judging by Carl's face, blood and glass smeared not just on his hands, but his face as well. He licked his lips, yep, there was definitely blood there. 'I bet I look a state,' he said wryly.

Carl laughed. 'Not as bad as Snow did.'

Mitchell blinked.

'Why do you think she ran off before you could see her?' Carl winked before disappearing.

Mitchell couldn't help letting out a small laugh.

* * *

**Next chapter to follow very shortly!**

Little FYI note for extra info.

Hiroshima – A hydrogen nuclear bomb that was dropped by America during the second world war in 1945. If effectively ended the war as the blast beyond anything seen before and was viewed as horrific by the whole world. The fallout caused birth defects and to this day they are still finding mutations in the wildlife.


	8. Getting to Know

**Okay, uploaded and hopefully all grammar and spelling perfect-ish.**

**I own nothing. No one had paid for me to stop, so I continue!**

**Reveiws are so welcome! I love reading them and you guys have some great ideas!**

* * *

It had been four days since Mitchell had been dropped off at Club 6. He had called Thomas to let him know that he was fine, no, no body bags were needed, just fresh clothes. Any messages, no word from Herrick? Good. He gave the number of the club if anything did come up, but stressed they were just to say there was a message, no other details; he'd call back. That was all, thanks.

After that first morning, Mitchell had been adopted into the circle of Snow, Carl, Jovian, Francois – who spoke excellent English Mitchell found out, and Adelle. His fist impressions of them being carefree pleasure seekers had only been re-inforced in the proceeding days; during the day they did what they liked, and every night was a wasteland of alcohol and laughter.

Jovian would be busy during the day, and occasionally he would disappear for an hour or so in the evening, coming back that little bit quieter than before, but no one mentioned it and the mood didn't dip for long.

Mitchell knew he should be looking closely as what was causing Jovian to 'dip' but there were constant distractions around him; He arrived on a Saturday evening having seen Hal on the Friday, but days had no meaning in the cavernous Music Hall / Theatre with no windows; whenever any of them did venture outside, it always seemed a surprise what time of day it was.

On the Sunday after Mitchell had cleaned up and stumbled downstairs he had been greeted by Adelle and Francois talking animatedly in a small-ish sitting room that was obviously the groups' day room. They had both looked up when Mitchell went through the door and Adelle had jumped to her feet, all dark green pencil skirt and silk shirt, encasing Mitchell is a hug and double kiss as he blonde hair bounced around her shoulders in perfect Veronica Lake curls.

'Darling Mitchell! So nice to see you in one piece!' She exclaimed with a wolfish grin. She wrapped her arm through his and led him over to when she and Francois was sitting.

Francois has bowed his head slightly and instantly offered Mitchell a bloody Mary. 'The best thing for an 'angover.' He has said cheerily as they all resumed their seats. 'It 'as been a favourite of mine since it's invention in Paris.'

Mitchell looked down at it and took a firm swig, coughing slightly at the spice. 'I think I would prefer it without the 'Mary'' He replied putting it down.

Adelle and Francois laughed politely but exchanged glances. Mitchell's eyes narrowed. 'What?' he asked, suspiciously, he had felt the mood shift, this place was no long the easy room it had been a second ago.

Francois nodded at Adelle who adjusted her seat and inched closer to Mitchell. 'Mitchell darling,' Adelle had started. 'You may have noticed last night that there was no,' she looked at Francois, 'conventional refreshment on offer for our kind.'

Mitchell looked between the two, he didn't like this. He made a non-committal grunt in reply.

'Jovian likes to keep a clean house.' She began again. 'In some respects.' she conceded with a grin.

'One of those respects is humans.' Said Francois.

Mitchell looked at them. Adelle looked uncomfortable, Francois' face was unreadable as he gazed back at Mitchell, his glasses amplifying his stare.

There was a pause.

'As in no one here drinks _blood_?' said Mitchell slowly. He looked between the two, '_Ever_?' _that can't be right_ he thought. _That just can't be._

'Of course we do.' He heard at the door. He turned around to see Snow enter the room looking perfect as always in tall black lether riding boots over a pair of light brown jodhpurs, a white silk bib collar blouse and navy jacket. Her hair was in a small bun at the nap of her neck and she looked to him like a little debutante about to go out to the stables.

She flashed him a large smile with her full plum lips that he returned crookedly as a memory flashed of where those lips had been just last night.

'What then?' he said as he reached for his glass of tomato spiced alcohol again, he was suddenly very thirsty.

'What Adelle means,' she said, winding her way into the room as she put on some small white leather gloves. 'Is that no one feeds or kills _on the premises_.'

She leaned down, wrapping her arms around him. 'It's done off site, discreetly.' She flicked her eyes at Francois and Adelle. 'Understood?'

Mitchell nodded slowly.

'Now come on,' she said, reaching down and tugging at his hand. 'We're going riding in Richmond Park to find something to eat.'

Adelle straightened and reached out for Mitchell's arm. 'I was going to take him sight seeing today.' She protested.

Mitchell looked between the two stunning women. Were they fighting over him?

'You can do that tomorrow.' Said Snow sweetly. 'I've cleared it with Jovian.' She flashed a saccharine smile as she pulled Mitchell up and away, 'Sorry Addie.'

* * *

Later, they all met up for another evening of drinking, this time down among the main audience of cocktail tables at the front. Everyone watched the entertainment, drank, smoked and caroused like the night before, but for some reason, the change of scene made everything fresh. People kept on coming over to them to talk, catch up, share a story or a joke and all seemed thrilled to meet Mitchell for no other reason other than he was with Jovian. Mitchell was entranced, if this was a trap he didn't care as he sat between Snow and Adelle; a grouping that continued when all three of them headed back to his newly repaired room.

The days continued in a sublime haze of conventional entertainment during daylight followed by a hedonistic orgie of laughter, alcohol and crushed furniture at night. Every day was something new, every night the same; it was a new type of heaven for Mitchell, one where ecstasy could be achieved without the thrill of the slaughter that had been his sole pursuit for decades.

Adelle's idea of sight-seeing had been to walk Mitchell round the main attractions - 'I've finally got you all to myself John Mitchell.' She had whispered devilishly into his ear - punctuating each one with a different mind-blowing sexual escapade down a quiet ally, or corner or roof or unattended closet. By the eighth sight Mitchell was panting after her and her creative imagination. Now here was a fun-love girl with stamina to match his own!

When it got to Tuesday – his fourth day at Club 6, Mitchell wandered to Jovian's office. He'd been taken all over London to the National Gallery, Victoria and Albert and Natural History Museum by Carl that day, who had sighed in resigned exasperation at Mitchell's adolescent attention span. Mitchell had fidgeted through the Rembrandt's; 'What kinda guy would paint a picture of himself every year, it's not like he couldn't use a fucking mirror!'; a selection of mummies and their sarcophagi 'Why're we here Carl, they're your relatives or something?' he'd goaded playfully. He had shown mild interest at the pinned insects in the cabinets pointing out how'd he'd once done something similar with rail-track spikes, then gone quiet at Carl's look.

By the time he'd been deposited back at the Club so Carl could go to the Tate alone, he'd decided he needed to do some kind of work for Herrick. Up until now he'd done little digging and he knew blagging it wouldn't cover his arse this time, for some reason his recruiter always knew when he was lying.

He knocked lightly on the door and heard the familiar voice answer. As he opened it he saw Jovian sitting behind his desk, leaning to the side where a tall thin framed woman stood that Mitchell hadn't seen before. Jovian looked over to the door and blinked, 'Mitchell!' he jumped up from his seat. 'I hadn't expected to see you here.' He said moving around the table swiftly to greet him.

In the warm, bright light of his study, Jovian looked even more like the 16 year old innocent he must have been when he was recruited. Mitchell wondered who would want to turn such a feminine child-like teenager, and for what reason? Not that there normally was a reason he reminded himself, and he knew of others that had been turned much younger too.

Mitchell's eyes slide from Jovian to the woman behind him who remained behind the desk. Her eyes caught his, just for a second but Mitchell had to hide the shock that bit down on him. The woman looked late forties, but was probably younger, hair greying and skin doing the same. Her eyes showed deep shadows that were reflected in the hollows of her collarbone; her only exposed skin in her sack of a buttoned dress. Mitchell inhaled, _human_.

He looked back at Jovian who was in front of him, his face obviously showing the puzzlement he felt. _You keep a human woman here?_

Jovian's smile faltered and he looked back. 'That's all thank you Christine.' He said. The woman disappeared through a concealed side door, glancing back once more over her shoulder. She looked haunted, tired, and worried. _Interesting._

'I just wanted to come by and say thank you.' Mitchell managed, smiling as convincingly as he could. He reminded himself that he liked this man, but he wasn't as sure as he had been.

Jovian indicated they sit on a cream leather sofa set in a corner; Mitchell the sofa, Jovian a matching chair at 90 degrees. Everything in here was pale pine and dark ebony, art deco patterning of thick cream carpets a chrome edging. The walls were inlaid wood depicting Venetian waterways, bridges and buildings. The room was beautiful, delicate and supremely stylish, just like its occupant.

'Really?' Said Jovian, some of the jollity had left his voice. He sat down and looked at Mitchell for a while. 'It wasn't so you had the chance for a proper chat? Answer your questions.' he asked pointedly.

Mitchell hesitated. He had been a vampire for over three decades, but he still had to remind himself that age wasn't in appearance. He smiled back, 'Well I would like to get to know you a bit better.'

'Is that what you'd like?'

'It's what I came here for.'

'Really?'

Mitchell paused, regarded Jovian and decided to lay his cards on the table. 'Well, it's what Herrick sent me here for.'

Jovian seemed to visibly relax. He sat back and threw his head back and laughed. Mitchell waited.

'Thank God!' he said. 'I couldn't stand spending another evening with that bleeding elephant in the room!'

Jovian looked back at Mitchell. 'Don't get me wrong Mitchell, William Herrick and I have a past together that has lead to a good and productive relationship. But that man never just does something like leave his protégé in London at my door for no good reason.'

Mitchell smiled, but he didn't relax.

'Don't worry Mitchell, I know why you're here. I'm aware of the rumours around me,' Jovian continued. 'About a possible replacement. You're not the first spy to be sent by a possible rival.' He held up a hand, 'No offence.'

Mitchell lifted his hands up. 'Hey, I'm just the spy,' he chuckled. 'I just here to report whatever I've seen.'

Jovian cocked his head to the side. 'And what have you seen?'

Mitchell considered, honestly he hadn't thought about it. 'Someone who doesn't look near his end. Someone with supporters.'

Jovian waited a beat. He face softened. 'I like you Mitchell.' He said, crossing his legs and picking a bit of fluff off his knee. 'I don't consider you a friend yet, not like the others. It takes a long time for that.' He added.

'How long have you known the others?' Asked Mitchell with genuine interest, he had wondered about Carl, Snow, Adelle and Francois.

Jovian smiled, a genuine warm smile. 'A mixture really. Snow as she's called now is my sister; we were recruited by the same vampire. I recruited Adelle back when I was… a long time ago.' He frowned. 'Carl and I found each other about thirty years ago, I had been abandoned and he rescued me.'

'Abandoned how?' Mitchell asked.

'My maker and I had a... differing of opinion. We started something together that I wanted to continue, he didn't.'

'Was it this place?'

Jovian shrugged. 'In a way.' He stared into the distance, his good mood had evaporated and dark clouds covered his face. Mitchell shifted.

'What about Francois?'

Jovian snapped back and laughed. 'He came into the Club one night twenty five years ago and never left. He introduced us to cocktails, the least we could do was let him stay. Have you tried his Bloody Mary?'

Mitchell nodded with a smile. He was burning to ask about the human. He fidgeted with his hands; for some reason, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. 'What about…' he paused. Jovian raised an eyebrow. Mitchell nodded towards the concealed door she had disappeared through. 'Her.'

Jovian blinked and looked away. Was that shame Mitchell saw? Frustration maybe? Jovian tapped the arm of his chair. 'You weren't supposed to see Christine.' He answered softly. 'She is my saviour, just like Carl.' He still wouldn't meet Mitchell's eye. 'She, Helps me.'

Jovian went silent. He looked so desperately sad, Mitchell didn't know what to say. There was silence.

Mitchell frowned, he felt a sudden need to prove himself to Jovian, help him. He leaned forward. 'How can you be so sure Jovian? That you'll be safe?' he asked in earnestly. 'I'll to do my best to shut them up, but I can't make the rumours go away on my own.'

Jovian shrugged again, an impossibly elegant gesture. 'Don't worry yourself Mitchell. I have a sponsor.' He said simply. 'It's his duty to keep me safe.'

Mitchell waited.

'He's the one who gave me all this.' Jovian said expansively. He looked around, 'All this finery and power.' But his eyes were dull, a tinge of irony in his voice.

'You don't seem too happy about that.' Prompted Mitchell.

Jovian gave a short laugh. 'When this man offers you something, you don't refuse.' He blinked and stood up, 'I think it's time we found the others.'

Mitchell rose cautiously.

'Don't worry Mitchell,' Jovian repeated. 'My sponsor knows to keep me safe.'

* * *

**No much to explain here. National Gallery, Victoria and Albert and Natural History Museum all in London, Rembrandt painted a self-portrait every year of his life, now dotted around the world. All Paintings and historical exhibits had been removed to safe bunkers dotted around the country during the Second World War – National Gallery paintings went to Wales, but everything was moved back in afterwards and none were struck by bombs.**

**The cocktail Bloody Mary was created in 1921. The history is on the website. Check it out if you're interested!**


	9. Melting Snow

**Sorry for the break. Manic times here. But I have now completed the next few chapters. Need to proof read (although I never get all the mistakes. And then will upload.**

**Now, on to Chapter 9 and who likes horse-riding?**

**As always, these characters I do not own, the ones I have made up I do own, but feel free to borrow them. TW rules!**

* * *

The day was warm, as far as Mitchell could tell the sun was shining in the sky above, but the sun hadn't shone in London for decades; the smog and dust of Industrialised London had blotted out any direct light leaving the air claustrophobic in summer, oppressive in winter and always stiflingly heavy.

Richmond Park was the closest London got to the outdoors, with landscaped woods, tailored acres of long grass and winding waters where branded 'wild' deer roamed across regulated paths that criss-crossed. Mitchell breathed in the thick dead tasting air as he kneaded the leather rein and flexed his stirruped heels. It had been the second time that Snow had taken him riding. The first he had been in pain from broken ribs and crushed hands as well as light headed through being drained – literally after their first night together. That time they had both taken it slow, meandered around the tamer areas, picking off a homeless man that had been sleeping in the woods and burying him deep below some roots. This time, Snow had announced to the group, that she was going to show him the beauty of the place in a state he could appreciate it.

He squinted up at the sky and raised his hand to cover his eyes; maybe the sun was a little clearer in the centre of the park, but the smog still made it tolerable for their sensitive eyes. He smiled, wondering lightly if this wasn't one of the reason for London's popularity with his kind. He looked away, the light wasn't what was occupying Mitchell's thoughts that day.

He looked at the rider to his right and smiled. How daring of Snow to wear male jodhpurs in public, although not unheard of after the campaign of empowering women in male roles during the war. She was wearing a small hat with a veil that half covered her face leaving just her red lips and tip of her nose exposed.

They had been alternately trotting and walking side by side for half an hour talking about nothing. Mitchell shifted in the saddle as his back gave a creak in protest. He didn't go riding often and his body was complaining.

'Tell me something Snow.' Mitchell asked.

Snow continued to look ahead but tilted her daintily in response.

'What's Jovian's story?'

There was a pause, Snow snapped her head round and looked through her grey's ears. 'What do you mean?' She asked cautiously.

Mitchell cleared his throat. 'This no blood thing.'

'I thought I explained that rule was only for the club.' She kicked her horse into the trot.

Mitchell smiled and kicked his bay to stay beside her. 'Yes you did,' He began again. 'Which would explain the homeless guy from Monday.'

'That was necessary.' She said quickly. 'Regrettable, but we both needed to recuperate. More than a sip was needed. Anyway, he won't be missed.'

'Yeah, okay,' Mitchell acquiesced, 'But there's something more right?'

'Like what?'

'Like Carl for one.' Mitchell prompted.

'What about him?'

Mitchell paused and pulled his horse to a halt. Snow carried on a pace then stopped. Mitchell stared at her. She looked back at him but said nothing.

'C-mon Snow.' Said Mitchell. To be honest he knew there was something different about Carl ever since they'd shook hands, he had guessed the no blood rule had something to do with it but even now, his mind couldn't piece it. He kept eye contact with where he hoped Snow's eyes were below the veil.

Snow's mouth pinched at the corner, like she was thinking. Mitchell wanted to scream in frustration, he couldn't see her eyes, let alone read them. After a beat she seemed to make a decision, she shortened the reins, the horse's head lifted and it's hooves jittered. 'Let us make a bargain John Mitchell.' She said. 'I have been riding all my life which has been considerably longer than yours.'

She pulled harder and the horse took steps back so she was in line with Mitchell again. 'If you catch me,' she said leaning forward, 'I will answer your questions.'

There was a flash of white teeth, her heels dug into the horse's sides and she was off.

Mitchell barely had time to react, he gripped the reins and kicked. His horse reared for a second then half jumped into a full gallop in pursuit.

She was good. Mitchell had to grip with his knees to stay in place, pushing his ride's head forward with each step to catch up. She was lighter but her horse was a lady's breed, thin legs for dainty movement, not endurance. He was gaining. She turned back, her lips smiling, then she bent down low and darted it into the forest.

She led him through the trees, making him weave through bushes and fallen logs that littered the earthen floor. Mitchell gritted his teeth, she could weave with ease through the narrow gaps, his horse was struggling. He looked around, he needed to get her out in the open. They were near the edge, tiny paths littered the floor heading west. He looked up, aiming his horse to go to the outside of her. Mitchell pulled in behind her, edging closer. She was being pushed out, where speed mattered and Mitchell would have the advantage. She looked back at him, her teeth bared and snapped the reins; her horse let out a squeal and reared, turning mid step and bolting out into the open.

Mitchell wasn't quick enough to do as she did, but it didn't matter, his horse had seen the other move and gleefully followed, both had had enough of the trees, they wanted the open. They raced, hard. Mitchell saw bushes pass, he bent when he saw a trunk ahead, but he'd never been good a jumps and almost became unseated when landing. _Fuck,_ he hoped she hadn't seen that. He looked up just in time to see her turn her head away, _Fucking Bollocks_. He held onto the horse's mane for balance and kick harder, he never lost sight of Snow, he was gaining on her.

Mitchell frowned, standing up in the stirrups. She was coming up next to him now. She snapped her head back quickly at him and then forwards, she was smiling. Mitchell followed her eyes and gulped, they were coming up to a fence, an alarmingly high fence where the wild park ended and the pedestrian park began. Fuck, he wouldn't survive that jump.

He had to make a choice; try and jump, fall and lose, or try something stupid, and possibly fall and lose. He loosened the reigns, giving his horse it's head, waited until his horse's neck was level with her hind then he unhooked one foot, pressed down hard with the other and jumped. He leapt with all his strength, sailing over the grey's back behind her. He saw Snow's head turn in surprise. He shot out his hand and gripped her arm, yanking her with him. With a gasp she let go of the reins and was propelled sideways, the pair tumbling to the ground.

Mitchell held her fast, he rolled on top of her, pinning her below him with a triumphant shout. Snow's hat had come loose, her eyes were rolling around in rage and anger her teeth bared. She snarled at him. 'You cheated!' she shouted.

Mitchell snorted. 'You said nothin' about how I could catch ya.' He said. 'You're lucky I don't carry a knife, I'm a great aim.'

She blinked, a frown line appearing between her eyebrows. Then she relaxed, a rueful smile on her lips. 'You are a tricky man aren't you John Mitchell.'

* * *

They both brushed themselves off and Mitchell went to round up the horses that had wandered off to eat some grass after their riders had vacated. On the way back through the fields, Mitchell leading both horses Snow relented.

'Carl doesn't drink blood. He's clean.' She said, her voice was neutral, her hands playing with her retrieved hat.

Mitchell stopped walking. Snow stopped with him, her eyes impassive. 'What,' floundered Mitchell. 'Is that even possible?'

Snow shrugged, turned and started to walk again. After a beat Mitchell followed. 'It's not _impossible _for some.' She said after a while. 'He didn't start out that way, but he's not had a drop for fifteen years or so.'

Mitchell frowned. 'So before that he was normal?'

Snow frowned. 'I don't think Cark has ever been normal. Everyone has blips.' She said simply. 'That's why the Club is a blood free zone; lessens the temptation.'

'And Jovian?'

'He tried.' She says. 'He was dry for a while, but he couldn't sustain it; the need too deeply imprinted. Now he has an… arrangement.'

'Christine?' Mitchell said.

Snow turned to him, for a second her eyes narrowed. Then she blinked and they were back to normal. 'Yes. Christine has been around for a long time. Jovian rescued her and she honours that debt by being there when he needs help.'

'He uses her as his personal blood-bank?' Said Mitchell incredulously. He thought back to the tall woman, the haunted look and pale skin. _What a waste of a life,_ he thought shaking his head, _For both of 'em_.

'He just takes enough to cope, to stop the thoughts taking over. He is the London King, he needs to be in control.' She looked at Mitchell who was frowning at the ground. 'You noticed the difference in Carl the minute you shook hands,' she explained. 'Imagine what would happen if Jovian renounced blood too, it would be instantly noticed.'

Mitchell thought back to his first meeting the Carl, Jesus it felt like years ago now. His paper thin skin with veins that felt full of nothing but air. He had sensed the delicacy and weakness in his body. Snow was right; a King could not be like that.

'Why?' Said Mitchell finally. 'Why would anyone give up blood?' He asked, he couldn't get his head around it.

Snow shrugged. 'They have their reasons.'

'And they are?' He pressed.

'Their own.' Replied Snow, more harshly this time.

'C'mon Snow,' Mitchell said in a low voice, he walked closer to her, putting his hand over her gloved one. 'I…' He looked at her, 'I _want_ to understand.' He said, the truth shocking him; he did want to understand, not just know. Something had woken up in him.

Snow paused again and looked up at him. She looked into his eyes, Mitchell stared at her pupils as they darted between one eye and the other. She bit the lower lip, a line appearing between her brows. 'Because,' she said in a whisper, she stopped and took a breath, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, they were deadly serious. 'Because they care about human life.'

Mitchell almost laughed. 'What?' he asked nervously.

Snow sighed and started to walk again, 'I don't know Mitchell. They-he believes human life to be precious. He wants to protect them from us, as much as he can.' She bent her head bringing up her hat to fixing it in place. 'We don't have to kill to survive; he thinks the price of killing is too high. It's no way to live.'

'Why?'

Snow's mouth tugged at the corner, 'He believes when we die, properly die, we have to atone for all the wrongs we do. Each death marks our soul, and one day we will have to pay for every life.'

_It makes sense,_ thought Mitchell, he'd seen ghosts and their doors._ If through that door lies everything bad we've ever done…_ Mitchell shook his head. Just because it made sense, didn't mean it was true. But what Snow as saying about Jovian fitted. Sure he'd had thoughts, something had been up at that club, Jovian wasn't acting anything like Herrick did in Bristol where fear and brutality ruled, but _this_? Renouncing blood? He looked at Snow. 'But you don't believe that though, do you?'

Snow was quiet. 'Sometimes.' She said.

Mitchell frowned, 'What about Adelle and Francois?'

Snow shook her head. 'We are free to do as we please. As it is, we have chosen to reduce our… intake. Out of respect for him. Until our first riding trip a few days ago, I hadn't taken a life in over a year.'

Mitchell stared at her. She flicked her eyes at him. 'There are other ways to survive Mitchell.' She said. 'It's not just money I collect from my clients. The trick is to do it subtly.' She winked.

'Why'd Jovian start this? Was it Carl?' _There had to be a reason to start doing something this crazy_.

Snow started walking again. 'No, Carl found him after. He discovered Jovian when his first 'support' left.'

'His first 'support'?'

'Yes,' said Snow, 'Jovian used to be an awful monster. He did some devilishly dangerous things for centuries with another dangerous man. Then he followed that very dangerous man down this very dangerous path. He was swayed by the words of a charismatic leader to forsaking his savage ways.' She laughed bitterly to herself as she reached up to pull down her veil again. Mitchell looked around them, they were nearing the edge of the park; back to the urban sprawl.

'What happened to this leader? Did he die?' He asked.

'In a way.'

'I don't understand,' Said Mitchell as he held her grey in place and gave her leg up. 'How did he meet this guy to begin with? Why'd he choose to follow this guy in the first place?'

Snow looked down at Mitchell. Again he couldn't see her eyes, but her mouth was sad. 'One will do a lot if their maker-father requests it. And our father could be very persuasive.'

'Jesus,' said Mitchell as he went around and swung himself up. 'Who was that guy?'

Snow looked at him and smiled. 'That, I'm afraid Mitchell, I'm not going to say. Very few people know who he is, and we have promised to keep it that way. It's worth more than my life.'

Mitchell paused. Is that why they were all so different from any other group of vampires he'd met? They all seemed so _happy_. And he was happy with them, in a way he hadn't felt like that in a long time. It was… he felt around for the right word… _peaceful_. He looked down at the ground, at the park, at the sky then back at Snow who was watching him quietly. He loved killing, _really_ loved it. It was so primal, energising, so… erotic; and he was good at it, really good at it. Could something that came so naturally be wrong. But since he'd been here he'd hardly done any of that. _They_ energised him. 'Could you…' he hesitated. 'Could you show me how?' He whispered.

Snow blinked, her lips parted. 'What?'

'Not the abstinence thing, it's just… I can't imagine going a year without killing.' He started again. 'And I want to stay here. Could you show me?'

Snow smiled benignly. 'Maybe one day.' She kicked her horse and trotted on.

* * *

**Oooh, is Mitchell faltering? Is this the future Mitchell peaking through or will it be soundly crushed!?**

**Not a lot to expand on here.**

**Richmond park is the biggest and 'wildest' park in London. yes there's deer - still are!**

**The smog was a huge problem for London, with factories and house chimneys creating a permanent haze whatever the weather. in December 1952 the cold weather combined with the constant pollution was so bad people couldn't see out more than a few feet in front of them, public transport stopped above ground and so did emergency services. Although at the time it only lasted a few days, it was later estimated that the adverse effects of the pollution resulted in thousands of premature deaths with over 100,000 being made ill. It was call The Great Smog. In London now smog is now not a problem due to the lessening of factories and the implementation of smokeless fuels for households.**

**Jodhpurs became fashionable for women to wear in the 1920s as an easier and more comfortable way to ride. Until then, women were expected to ride side-saddle - I've tried it, it's not fun.**

**During the war, women took on many male jobs including factory work to make up for the shortfall when all the men went off to war. There was a great empowerment drive for women to get out there and earn money (although they were still paid less than men doing the same roles). It was a great time for women's lib and equality. However, when the war ended and all the men came home, women were told to go back to the home so the guys could have their jobs back. A woman's focus became family and the kitchen only.**

**let me know if you don't like the expansion thing at the end. I'm really into history but I do sometimes think I sound like I should wear a monocle and be pushed into a ditch!**


	10. The Night Before

**Just a few more chapters to go now!**

**Usual Disclaimer: Toby owns all, I created some characters (not the good ones).**

**Hope you all enjoy. Comments, criticisms & ideas are welcome as always!**

* * *

'He's been in charge too long Henry.' Said Wyndham 'His behaviour cannot be tolerated in someone of his position.' He stood up and walked over to the huge bay windows that looked out over the street below, everything was purple and cream from the morning sun. 'He's been declining for the past fifty years and will take the whole on London with him thanks to you.'

'Thirty years,' Hal corrected, his eyes narrowing 'And I'm handling it.' He said in a low voice.

'Fifty; we go from when this madness began, not when you _handed_ him London.' Wyndham clipped. 'A Decision that is still being questioned.'

Hal clenched his jaw.

'We agreed with you reasoning at the beginning.' Wyndham said carefully. 'But far from coaxing him back, it seems to have exacerbated it. It is a case of 'the silence of modern London is deafening.' Hal bowed his head and rubbed the side of his glass thoughtfully. Wyndham cleared his throat. 'The decision has been made that your attempt at rehabilitation however_ heart-warming_,' Hal's eyes drifted to the floor. 'Has failed. Mr Snow wants you to conclude it, permanently.'

Hal snapped his head up.

Wyndham looked at him, his voice was slow, but Hal heard the excitement and relish in each word. 'You can't be surprised Henry, he is your recruit, you made him your responsibility. He is, _ahem_ what he is because of you.'

'He can come back.' Hal said, standing.

Wyndham smiled in false sympathy taking an unconscious step back. 'He is not you, Henry.' He said carefully. 'If he was he would have the sense to go about his-' he quickly glanced at Hal. '-_episodes_ quietly. Not promote it.'

Hal mouth twitched. Henry Yorke and his 'episodes' were known - if not discussed - among the Old Ones. But none of them were stupid enough to remind him of it. Other vampires who had, had met a messy and quite honestly harrowing end. Wyndham rushed on – 'You took him with you down that path and he has chosen to stay on it. You can hardly disagree?' It was a tentative question, Edgar was suddenly aware that he'd maybe pushed Henry Yorke too far.

The way Hal was looking at him, Wyndham didn't like; he got the distinct impression he was being assessed for dissection. Finally, Hal's dark eyes blinked, there was fire in there, and wrath that Wyndham knew he could only convey with words; this man was never just words.

'How long?' Hal said finally.

Wyndham inwardly sighed with relief, 'Within the month.' Wyndham replied as he straightened, he hadn't realised how hard he'd been gripping the fireplace mantle.

Hal nodded, looking down at his feet in consideration. When he looked up again at the vampire that was 500 years his senior it was Wyndham who felt his insides freeze.

Hal's face was unreadable. 'Tell Mr Snow it will be done within the week.'

* * *

On Thursday night Mitchell arrived at their Royal Box to be greeted by Carl, Adelle and Francois. He looked around for the other two, 'Jovian's working,' Said Adelle, leaning on Carl's shoulder, tapping out music on the table with her nail, it was oddly jittery for her he thought. 'So's Snow.'

Mitchell looked at Adelle questioningly, she indicated the balcony.

He went over to the edge and peered down, the auditorium was full as always, the show had started and everyone was enjoying themselves. He caught sight of Snow, sitting at a table surrounded by portly gentlemen in tuxedos. She was wiggling and flirting, placing a delicate hand on one's knee, leaning back against another shoulder. Mitchell had seen it before with Snow, it didn't particularly bother him; she wouldn't be long, they were lovers, not _in_ love.

He turned back to the table. Carl looked over 'Everything okay Mitchell?' he smiled handing over a glass of champagne with a strawberry. 'You don't look too good.'

Mitchell shook his head. 'I'm fine.' he mumbled.

He wasn't. He had received a phone call from Thomas that evening. They had received a message from Lord Hal that afternoon: He wanted to meet Mitchell at noon tomorrow, alone.

'I 'sink' announced Francois, a little bit too loudly, 'Zat the Ire-eesh spy eez jellous' he barked a laugh and banged his hand on the table. 'Ha! Never fall for a professionale fame fatale Mich_elle_,' he slurred, his accent more pronounced in his drunken state. 'Nev-air!'

It had been understood by all why Mitchell was there – well, they knew about Herrick had ordered him, Mitchell didn't mention who had ordered Herrick. They had known about Herrick all along, but since his talk with Jovian, they no longer found the need to hide it; it was 'one of those things'; nothing that should stop them having fun.

'Thanks _Francine_' Mitchell said irritably at the feminisation of his name – Adelle and Carl sniggered. 'I can tell you're passed your fourth bottle already.'

Francois grinned. 'Mais Oui, by lunchtime dear _Michelle_!'

Adelle and Carl collapsed in laughter. 'Francine and Michelle!' proclaimed Adelle, jumping up with energy. 'I love it! Let's all be our opposite today!' she proclaimed. She stood up and held her glass out in a toast. 'Tonight John is _Michelle_, Francois is _Francine_, Carl is _Carlotta_ and I will be Adam, no,' she said with a frown, 'I shall be _Antoine_!'

'What about me?' came a voice as Jovian entered the room. He smiled at the table but Mitchell could tell something was weighing him down. Carl smiled back warmly and welcomed him over. 'Adelle has decided the theme for tonight.' He explained as Jovian was handed a glass.

'Yes, we are changing our sex.' proclaimed Adelle loudly. Jovian raised his delicate eyebrow 'And I proclaim you to be…' she looked him over, '_Josephine_!'

Adelle stripped Mitchell, putting on his jacket and trousers; placing the braces delicately over her exposed nipples. Snow had joined them after a few hours and been designated 'Charming' by Mitchell. Francois had allowed – or maybe he hadn't noticed – the group to rouge his cheeks and paint his lips red with Adelle's makeup. Mitchell had tried to put on Adelle skirt which looked ridiculous, but all were eclipsed by Jovian and Snow who had left together and come back wearing each others clothes so perfectly it was eerie; Snow had slicked back her hair and drawn a moustache with black eyeliner, while Jovian had fitted into the corset, stockings and skirt so well they looked made for him. Even Carl had entered into the spirit of things, wearing a wig Snow had fetched from backstage and strapping on a mermaid's shell bikini over his shirt.

Mitchell looked at the mantle clock behind Jovian – Josephine's – head; One. In eleven hours, he would be standing before Lord Hal, this time alone. The thought brought him up like iced water to the face, he looked around the group; he couldn't help but feel a fraud.

Jovian seemed to notice the sudden change. He regarded him for a second and then smiled.

Snow looked over too. 'Aww,' she pouted squeezing his upper thigh. 'I think the _spy_ is feeling left out.'

'Careful,' Adelle chimed in, 'We don't want a bad report!'

Mitchell smiled thinly, was that remorse he was feeling, he thought. It had been so long since he'd felt remorse about anything. He shifted uncomfortably.

'Afraid about getting your marching orders from back home are you?' Said Carl as he took a sip from a green coloured martini.

Snow grinned. 'I think we've shown _Michelle_ too much of a good time, he doesn't want to leave us!'

'Take heart John Mitchell,' Jovian said grandly, 'We won't let you go that easily! After all, we've grown quite fond of you.'

Carl nodded. 'You've lasted longer than the others.'

'The others?' Mitchell asked curiously.

Adelle nodded. 'The other _spies_.' She said dramatically.

Jovian leaned forward, a difficult thing while wearing a corset. 'There was the King from Barry who sent a little sneak over here a couple of years ago, tried to not so subtly pump Adelle for information.'

'Ahh yes, James,' Said Adelle wistfully.

'He lasted four days, and that's only because Adelle enjoyed the pumping.' Carl cut in wryly.

'Then there was the Scotland Laird,' Jovian continued, 'He sent his daughter to try and sway me,' he smirked, so did everyone else. 'Then he sent his son.' He raised his eyebrows, everyone at the table sniggered.

'Not interested?' Mitchell ventured.

Jovian scoffed. 'I've been around long enough to learn manners. The Laird was older than me and had learnt none or he would have stopped when I sent his daughter back alive.'

Mitchell looked at Jovian, for a second he thought he had seen something in his eyes; a darkness that wasn't there before; he was reminded of what Snow said about Jovian's devilishly dangerous past. Carl reached for Jovain's hand and squeezed it. Jovian blinked and gave a warm smile back. 'Plus they smelt awful.' He added, over-dramatically pinching his nose and pulling face.

Mitchell scoffed loudly, 'You snob,' he winked.

Jovian looked up, his eyes full of mischief, 'Careful, don't make me get out the kindling, I'm old enough to know the right way to burn an Irish Catholic.'

Snow and Adelle 'ooo'd'.

Mitchell's face cracked into a grin. 'It 'aint illegal to be either of those anymore, but other things still are,' he looked meaningfully between Jovian and Carl, he waggled his finer, 'Don't make me report you both to the authorities now.'

Carl threw up his hands in mock innocence. 'What? Us?'

'He's got you there!' Shreiked Adelle, clapping her hands.

Jovian laughed harder. 'Arg, you Irish bastard! You plan to usurp me through blackmail you blaggard! Are none of us safe? Quick run for the boats, leave the women and children.'

They all fell around in giggles, Mitchell smiled.

* * *

Mitchell stumbled his way to his bedroom – alone for once, still clutching his drink. He needed to get some proper sleep and be ready for tomorrow. He'd left the group around four, claiming exhaustion as he looked accusingly at Snow. She'd giggled and winked back.

The narrow corridor he'd found himself in wasn't quite where he'd wanted to go. He stopped, debating whether to carry on or turn back when he heard a low scrape and a thud from behind a closed door. He frowned and blinked, something wasn't right, he could smell it. He stepped towards the door and gingerly turned the handle. He didn't want to barge in if it was harmless, but something made him think he wouldn't come across one of the Club's many girls with a client.

The room's light was low; a single dull light bulb under a red shaded lamp weakly illuminated little. It was like most of the rooms he'd seen; a table, a wardrobe, a small desk, all dwarfed by a large four poster heavily curtained bed. Right by the foot of the bed stood a female figure, bent over one raised leg that rested on the bed. She looked up suddenly as light from the hall spilled in, letting out a small gasp.

'Mitchell!' Came the familiar voice. Adelle smiled as she shielded her eyes, 'You startled me.'

Mitchell's eyes narrowed. 'You alright Adelle?' he ventured. 'You skipped out early on us.'

Adelle had excused herself about an hour before, she'd looked distracted Mitchell thought. Jovian had gone over to her before she left, whispering in her ear. She'd given a broad but forced smile and nodded back before disappearing.

'I'm perfect darling,' she recovered, giving Mitchell the same insincere smile he'd seen earlier. Adelle fixed her stocking and trotted over towards him.

'You all alone?' He asked.

'Not anymore,' She said reaching for his half drunk martini, gulping down the contents slowly. 'Let's continue not being alone in your room shall we?' she said suggestively.

Mitchell let himself be led back down the hall. He knew she was trying to distract him, to get him out of there, but he'd let her; it was too late. He could recognise the familiar tang of fresh blood in the air anywhere. And no matter how dark the room, his vampire eyes' couldn't miss the lifeless foot peaking out behind the bed.

* * *

**I thought there was far too little death going on, but don't worry, it gets worse!**

**Nothing really to add here. I don't think there is anything that needs further talking about.**

**On to the next! **


	11. Parting the Clouds

**And I'm back again. Mitchell and Hal together again! Yay. Had so much fun writing this one! Hope you like it too. It's all scene, no pauses this time I'm afraid, so be warned! **

**So happy that people are sticking with this! Please leave feedback if you like/hate/wish to improve it. I love hearing from everyone!**

**Normal disclaimer. In this section, all characters are not mine, but I am so happy to play with them!**

* * *

'John, how good to see you again.' Hal breezed into the room with the ease and elegance Mitchell recognised as something men of extreme power often possess. Mitchell had come to realise through Herrick that those to be feared rarely maintained a constant menacing demeanour; they just didn't need to. Hal handed his coat and gloves behind him to a waiting servant. 'The decanter,' Hal ordered not bothering to look back. The servant bowed, walked over to the drinks cabinet, produced an empty decanter and disappeared through the concealed door down to the basement.

Mitchell had been deposited in the centre of the room but the butler and left to wait. As the seconds increased, so did his feeling of unease and rising panic, he didn't know what he was going to say to Hal, or how Hal would react. He was woefully unprepared for this meeting. He had intended to have an early-ish night, get up before nine and have a proper chance to say… Even now Mitchell wasn't sure what he was going to say. _All thanks to Adelle_, he thought with a wry smile, followed by a frown. Once he'd woken up he'd found Snow and told her about what he'd seen, he felt he should tell someone and he trusted Snow. Snow had nodded, knitting her brows together placing her hand to stroke his chest.

'_Thank you for tell me.' She'd said. She looked at him through her thick dark lashes, 'What made you tell me Mitchell?' _

_He paused. Honestly he didn't know. 'It didn't seen right.' He concluded after a second. 'It's not what this,' he indicated around him, 'Is all about.'_

_Snow nodded slowly. 'I will tell Jovian.'_

'_Do you have to?' He'd said._

'_Yes, he needs to know this.' She looked up at him. 'Thank you John, you don't know how important this is for us.' She whispered, rising to her tiptoes to kiss his cheek._

Mitchell kept his eyes firmly on the man in front of him who casually but purposefully walked towards the corner table and chairs. Mitchell took a slow shaky breath for courage and followed Hal over to the circle of chairs that he, Hal and Herrick had sat in less than a week before.

Mtichell's hand twitched as Hal sat down and Mitchell dutifully, if reluctantly followed. _Jesus, was every chair here made of stone?_ In the oppressive atmosphere of the opulent room, alone with only the legend of a monster in front of him, Mitchell realized with dawning panic that he had made a mistake coming straight here from the Club: he hadn't drunk any blood in days, and he was starting to feel it.

He felt his forehead and ears ice over; he couldn't believe he had made the same error as last time. And now there was no Herrick to act as a buffer. Mitchell thought back to when he'd last eaten. Today was Friday; he had arrived at Club 6 on the Sunday, Snow had taken him riding in the park and they had shared that homeless man. Then Adelle had taken him on a tour of London Landmarks and he's found a French tourist. But she'd stopped him from draining the man. 'Just take enough and then we'll take him to the hospital. Jovian doesn't like missing bodies.' She'd looked wistfully at the man, but hadn't touched him herself. That was Tuesday.

_Fuck, Tuesday?_ Mitchell couldn't believe it. That was three days with no blood, Tuesday's had been less than a couple of mouthfuls and Sunday had barely been enough to recover from the night before. _Fuck!_ Mitchell wished he was back in the Royal Box, or in bed with Snow, or Christ, even back in Bristol with Seth right now. He tentatively glanced up at Hal who was regarding him through deep dark eyes, his hands steepled before his face. 'Are you feeling all right John?' He asked in a low ironic voice. Mitchell gave a weak grin in return and swallowed.

The servant who had disappeared with the decanted reappeared carrying it on a silver tray with two large crystal tumblers. He set it down on the table next to Hal and waited. Hal flicked a hand and the man removed himself.

Hal leaned forward bringing the table closer between the two of them. He lazily stroked the cut glass, flicking his eyes to Mitchell to make sure he had his full attention; he had. With a small private smile, Hal grasped the decanter that contained the dark ruby liquid that had become Mitchell's sole focus and removed the stopper. As soon as the blood had arrived Mitchell had forgotten all about why he was there, who he was with and what he planned to say, like a Demille film, the crystal had been brought into a glorious close-up, if his heart could beat, it would have been hammering.

'I thought decent sized glasses would be better.' Hal said lightly as he slowly poured, filling up first one glass then the other. The smell was too much for Mitchell; it was heaven. His eyes flicked up at Hal's and gave a small smile before returning to the glass. He didn't notice the small narrowing of Hal's eyes as he surveyed Mitchell, just for a second. Hal smiled, slowly leaning forward as he held out the glass. Mitchell took it in both hands.

Hal raised his own in a small salute and gracefully brought it to his lips. Mitchell took this as his cue; he fell on the glass, gulping it down in three huge mouthfuls. _Jesus, it's still warm._ He wanted more, he needed more; he needed it now before the heat left. He licked his lips to get the last of it, he was breathing hard.

He couldn't believe he'd gone without for so long. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten how good it tasted. He couldn't believe he'd asked Snow to help him quit. He felt a sudden pang of rage, they'd been trying to distract him from this; his one true love. And he had fallen for it.

Mitchell looked up, remembering he was not alone, he swallowed and smiled sheepishly. Had he gone too far again? He noticed that Hal had barely touched his. He didn't know what to do. Could he ask for more?

Hal kept looking at him, an amused smile on his face. 'Feeling better now are we?' he asked lightly.

Mitchell swallowed and nodded slowly. 'Yes,' he rasped. 'Thanks.'

Hal's smile spread wider, he picked up the decanter again and refilled the empty glass. This time Mitchell swallowed slower; he closed his eyes, hiding the darkness that had flooded in as he allowed himself to give in to the roar rising inside; his sharp extending teeth grazing the glass ever so slightly. He wanted to feel it all, as his true self. The last drop caressed its way down his soothed throat too soon, he forced his teeth back and his eyes to go brown again - he had to be polite.

'Thank you.' He repeated. He meant it too; he'd come so close to being sucked in. This man had saved him; brought him back to where he really wanted to be. He looked down at the glass and felt a humiliating lump rise in his throat at the thought that he almost gave it up.

'Take heart, Mitchell, you aren't the first to be seduced.' Came Hal's soft voice through his shamed thoughts. 'Jovian and his friends can be very _persuasive_, so I've been told.' He leaned back, putting the stopper in the decanter, Mitchell's eyes fell to his empty glass in longing. 'Seduction comes in many forms, but all are designed to cloud the mind.'

Mitchell looked up tentatively. Hal lowered his head and looked deep into Mitchell's eyes. 'You could have been warned, but I needed you to see how dangerous they are.'

'How did you know?' whispered Mitchell.

Hal smiled. 'Do you think you were in that place on your own?' He asked. 'I've had eyes on them for quite a while.'

'Who?' Mitchell asked.

'It doesn't matter.' Dismissed Hal. 'What matters is that you have felt the poison they spread.' He indicated Mitchell, his face trying to hide the sneer as he spoke, 'You, _Big Bad John_, where the legend of your exploits is only outstripped by the truth! Someone who is so _in tune_ with who and what it truly is to be a vampire, no one would dare _breath_ that they could _imagine,_ let alone _consider_ the idea of renunciation of The Life,' Hal's eyes narrowed, 'Lasted less than a week.' Hal paused on each of the last five words, allowing the distain, disappointment and anger to impact upon his target.

Mitchell winced at every word; He'd never felt more undeserving of his nickname. 'If they can do it to you, imagine how many lessers will fall.'

Mitchell blinked, Hal lifted his chin, his tone changed, 'Do you know what happens when a vampire swears off blood, Mitchell?'

Mitchell shook his head, but cleared his throat. 'Carl – Jovian's, ah, partner.' Hal inclined his head in acknowledgement – of course he knew who Carl was. 'He's been clean for fifteen years.'

'But he's a lot older than that John.' Said Hal. 'What do you think happened before?' Mitchell shook his head. 'Let me put it another way: What happens when a temperance observer gives into temptation? He never has just one does he? He has ten, twenty, fifty drinks. And that's alcohol, we both know, what we drink is so much more.'

Hal leaned forward. 'Imagine what happens when a vampire slips – and they always do. It's not empty bottles he'll leave, it's bodies. _Mountains_ of bodies, on _miles_ of streets.'

He lifted his hand towards Mitchell, palm up. 'You and I have a skill John; I regard myself as an artist and I see you the same. We have earned our reputations through the pursuit of pleasure as an art form. A little massacre here and there can be accepted for what it is; an artist creating a masterpiece. I've been around a while Mitchell,' Hal noted the smile that came from using his surname, accepted gratefully as a small show of respect. 'And let me inform you, if a vampire abstains for a year, he will kill double that in those first few days. _Every time_.' Hal emphasised the last words, refusing to let Mitchell look away. 'Abstaining, no matter the willpower, or the safeguards, _never lasts_.'

Hal waited, he could see Mitchell squirming in front of him. _Good._ He thought, _Best not to scare him witless_. Hal blinked, breaking eye contact to focus to look at the decanter again, he knew Mitchell's eyes would follow him to settle there as well, _Good to remind him of his dependence._ 'Vampires will not always be hidden from humans.' He began again, 'But _we_ will choose when to reveal ourselves, _we_ will not have our ancient and noble race exposed by the degeneration of our kind into unstable, self-loathing, _rabid animals!_'

Mitchell swallowed, his mouth had turned dry. He could see it: Pale, emaciated vampires like Carl wandering the streets, turning into fevered beasts as soon as a human cuts their leg, or finger, or head. It's wouldn't take many; just a few to loose control in a public place and then the human authorities - even the ones in their control - would have to question how people could be wiped out by the same mysterious wild animal; it would be too big to brush under the carpet. He looked as Hal continued, 'They'd hunt us down.'

Hal nodded, his gaze fixed on Mitchell 'And we'd be too weak to do anything about it.' He said.

There was a pause as Hal's words sunk in. Mitchell was hunched forward over his hands, he shook his head, 'But will it come to that?' Hal's eyes narrowed, 'Ah, I mean, Jovian and the others have been there for decades, nothing's changed.'

Hal raised an eyebrow. 'Hasn't it?'

Mitchell opened his mouth to respond, then stopped himself. Herrick had told him, Hal and told him too; London _had_ changed. The death rate had gone down, a long way down; the recruitment rate had declined just as sharply too. He looked at Hal incredulously. 'But will it spread?'

Hal leaned forward and refilled Mitchell's glass. 'You noticed the mixture of human and vampire clientel that frequent that club I trust? It's not just the little group of friends that Jovian has reached.' Mitchell had, he's spotted them from the royal box, shaken hands with them, he couldn't remember how many, and there had been many. They all seemed normal though. Hadn't they?

'And you've met Francois haven't you? Claiming to hate post-revolutionary France, and yet he still visits Paris.'

Mitchell froze, thinking back to his first morning he had found Francois and Adelle with their heads together, whispering like thieves. What had he said about Bloody Mary cocktails?

_'It 'as been a favourite of mine since it's invention in Paris.' _Mitchell clenched his jaw; he should have picked up on it; cocktails weren't even popular until the 20s, he'd been fucking in Paris at the time. Yet Francois had claimed to never have returned since the Revolution of 1790s.

'I walked in on him and Adelle talking.' He shook his head, it had seemed like nothing at the time, but now…. He took another deep drink; it was cooler, but there was still a delicious spark as he swallowed.

Hal chucked. 'Don't worry yourself with Adelle.' He said.

Mitchell's mouth fell open. _Adelle? Really?_ 'Is that why she was talking to him? _She_'s your informer?' He leaned back, barely noticing the non-give of the convex fabric at his back. He almost laughed to himself, now he thought about it, it made sense. That would be why she'd killed that man last night; not being 'one of them'.

His mind froze. She wasn't one of them. The room fell away from him, Mitchell felt like when he'd been thrown into the air by a shell; freefalling downwards into unknown oblivion. It was all he could do to not drop the near empty glass. He dared to look back at Hal; had he noticed? His eyes met the deep, constant level gaze that had never left his face. Mitchell swallowed again.

'Something on your mind, Mitchell?' Hal said slowly.

'I ah,' Mitchell was flailing around. The warning words of Herrick swimming in his head when they had first arrived_ 'He's not as forgiving as I am.'_

Hal waited, he clicked his tongue once.

_Fuck!_ 'I saw her,' Mitchell said, eyes fixed on the floor. 'Last night, I saw her kill a guy in the club. She tried to hide it but the rules are no killing on site. I-I told Snow. She said she was gonna take it to Jovian.' He swallowed. He looked down at the glass – was this going to be his last ever taste of blood?

Hal didn't move. Silence filled the room. A second passed, then ten seconds, then thirty. Finally Hal uncrossed his legs and put down his glass. 'Well,' Hal stood up, buttoning his jacket as he went. Mitchell followed, _Fuck, was this it? Was this the end? One move and Hal's hand could be through his chest, pulling out his heart_. 'It seems they have turned you into _their_ informer, John Mitchell.' He clipped.

Mitchell shook his head urgently, 'No, Hal, ah Lord Hal, no. I didn't mean to!' He protested weakly, even to his own ears he sounded pathetic.

'The child's excuse, John.' Hal shot back.

_Oh great, back to calling me John again._ 'If I'd have known…' the words died in his throat, last night, he had been loyal to Jovian, and Snow. If Adelle had come out and admitted her role, would he have kept it secret from them? Humiliation and anger shook his body, he balled his fists, he knew the answer, but he couldn't say it, event to himself.

'Tell me John.' Said Hal softly, stepping closer, his voice like velvet, 'Are you still their informer?'

Mitchell gritted his teeth. 'Not I'm not,' he growled.

Hal smiled, 'How do you feel about proving that?'

Mitchell smiled darkly, the monster was rising, 'I would like that very much.' He said.

'Good.' Hal's voice rose to normal and he walked away. 'I am giving you another chance John. I want you to know how rare that is.'

'Yeah,' Mitchell said eagerly with relief. 'Anything.'

Hal stopped, turned to look and Mitchell and gave a secret smile. 'The time has come to remove the diseased limb before it infects the body.' He looked at Mitchell, 'You know all about how infection spread in the body don't you John?'

He Nodded. 'Of course you do. During war, one experiences so much of it first-hand doesn't one? And the Great War was such an interestingly unique time for study wasn't it?' Mitchell's eye twitched but he said nothing. Hal noted the involuntary tell, filing it away. 'You will hear from me in 12 hours.'

Mitchell nodded. Hal clapped his lightly on the shoulder. 'Good.' Hal smiled warmly, his mercurial mood flipping to disarmingly jovial. 'I think it's time we flexed those artistic muscles don't you?'

Mitchell smiled back, relief flooding through him; he wasn't going to die today. He would prove to Hal he could be trusted, he would show those bastards just how fucking creative he could be. He pictured their faces, their laughing around the table. Their little laughs now seemed loaded with scorn, their glances at each other filled with secret plotting. He gritted his teeth, he wanted to rip them all apart, slowly. No one fooled John Mitchell and stayed alive.

'Before you go,' Hal added as he steered him away from the chairs. 'Let Fergus take you downstairs. There's a little gift I think you will appreciate. You remember the circus twins don't you, Mitchell?'

Mitchell almost stumbled. Yes, he remembered the 'psychic' twins Hal had found and his experiment to discover if their abilities were genuine. Hal's last experiment had been to turn one; see if the other felt her death and then to get the new vampire to kill the other as her first and only meal before they ended her too. 'Yes, I remember.' He said in a small voice, the thought still un-nerved him. He cleared his throat; he couldn't balk like he had before, not again. 'Did… Did your last test work?'

'Alas no,' sighed Hal as he indicated Mitchell go with the tall, sneering, thug of a man that had appeared – Fergus he guessed. 'She never woke up. It happens some times, if truth be told I suspected she was too far gone when I started. I had wanted to turn the healthy one but we got a bit carried away with dear Mary, she was too close to death when we started. It was a gamble I was forced to take.' He shook his head as he stood by the door. 'Still, it leave us where we are today.' He smiled. 'I hope you enjoy my gift.'

Mitchell smiled back and gave a small but genuine laugh. Hal held out his hand for Mitchell to shake; just one shake. 'I leave you here Mitchell, I will decide who and let you know.' Hal nodded to Fergus who indicated Mitchell follow him down the stairs.

Hal watched Mitchell exit the house an hour later. Making sure he wasn't seen when the young vampire looked out the car window as it pulled away. Vaguely he thought he should feel bad for lying to him. He would have preferred to simply feed him full of blood so all thoughts of joining his former protégé had fled and then pointed him at the group and whispered 'kill.'

Someone like Mitchell would have done it too. He would have ripped his way through them all in a blood haze, no questions asked. Not too bright. He could have just as easily killed the Irish puppy himself, he briefly wondered why he hadn't. Maybe he hadn't been completely lying when he said he though of Mitchell as an artist like himself. He had a long way to go from his current cave paintings to Hal's Sistine Chapel works though. Perhaps in time.

He looked at the mantelpiece clock again in his study, 2 o'clock. 'Fergus!' he shouted. The door opened promptly. 'Tell our little friend at Club Six he's on his way back.'

* * *

**What to describe or explain here? French Revolution again, same date 1789-99. Bloody Mary drink created in 1921 in Paris.**

**Sistine Chapel (1508-1512): The artist Michelangelo's masterpiece at the Vatican. Been there, beautiful, even if (in my opinion) Michelangelo couldn't do women – muscly men with ice cream scoop style boobs.**

**DeMille (Cecil B Demille 1881 – 1959) was a famous director who did such films as Samson and Delilah (1949) and The Tem Commandments (1956). He was immortalized in the film Sunset Boulevard by the lead female's character saying Alright Mr DeMille, 'I'm ready for my closeup.' Loved doing closeups of women's faces in flattering romantic light.**


	12. Beauty is a B---h

**Sorry for the huge gap, Real Life can be a sod sometimes!**

**Anyway, only a few more chapters to go.**

**Reviewing**** shows you care. I want this story to be as good as it can and for that I need your help!**

**I own nothing, not even the computer I currently type on!**

* * *

Mitchell climbed into the back of his car, giving Thomas a small nod. as they pulled away smoothly from the curb, Mitchell kept his eyes on the building he'd just left.

He hadn't seen Hal after his trip to the cellar – although cellar was most definitely an understatement; the stairs down had lead deep down into the earth - further than Mitchell thought possible for men to dig - before opening up to what looked like a brand new bunker. Fergus had explained it had been remodeled in the 1930s from the crypt style catacombs that had been there before; electricity put in, water, heating.

He was led down a corridor that consisted of rows of smartly tiled rooms – reminiscent of police cells; each containing a bed, toilet and sink. Mitchell was led past an open door which looked like an operating theatre, _No, Frankenstein's operating theatre!_ Mitchell corrected. At the end of the hall he could see a furnace that reminded Mitchell of B Edwards' cremation room; probably installed for the exact same reason too.

The Girl had been pretty, but cowed by months of incarceration, faint from the pint that had recently been taken but clean and otherwise untouched. She had a bandage around her elbow where they'd drained her – very clinical Mitchell mused, you could keep someone alive for months that way. He made a note to mention it to Herrick. He saw on the wall two short chains at shoulder height with leather cuffs and sheepskin lining that buckled with another set attached to her bed. Hal had designed for the girl to be comfortable, even when restrained.

'When you're done,' said Fergus at his elbow, 'Lord Hal says you can take your pick on a few others too.' He looked down at the dead-eyed girl. 'Not much fight left in her anymore, you look like you like a bit of fight.' Mitchell gave a small nod, his focus remaining of the girl crouched on the bed.

Mitchell rubbed his lip as the car jolted over a small pothole and smiled. True, she hadn't put up any resistance at all. He'd crouched down in front of her; did she know about her sister? She'd looked up at him with baleful eye but said nothing. 'If I told you she was dead would you care?' she blinked. 'What about if I told you she was alive and you could save her?' She looked away.

_Yeah, not even a flicker of interest there,_ he'd thought, _it'd probably all been said many times before anyway._ He'd sighed, holding her head in his hands, turning it one way then the other. _The sanctity of human life,_ He though. _What a fucking joke._

He hadn't been satisfied from her as Fergus predicted; it was more the honour of Lord Hal giving her to him. The other two though, they'd put him into the contented calm he now felt; they'd cried, screamed and tried to fight just like he wanted, just like he needed. He hadn't felt this good in days, his chest was warm, his head and throat tingled, his mind had a new clarity; the seductive clouds of Club 6 had been thoroughly brushed aside.

'Where to now?' Thomas asked as Mitchell fished out a cigarette from a dispenser in the car door and flicked open a gold plated lighter. 'Take me to the house.' Mitchell exhaled. 'They think I'm checkin in so I might as well stop by and pick up something special.'

'Oh yeah?' Laughed Thomas, 'I don't think Herrick is the kind to leave a note sayin' he misses you.'

Mitchell smiled. 'May be not for you!' He took another deep drag. 'I was thinkin' more a present for my friends at Club 6.'

Thomas raised his eyebrows and looked back at Mitchell for a second. Mitchell stared straight out of the window, his brown eyes hard as stone. 'Like what?' he was asked.

'Like a fucking knife.'

* * *

When Mitchell got to the club he found it deserted. He looked at the clock in the hall; Three thirty, the club wasn't due to open for a couple of hours yet, even so there was normally someone around.

He went to the living room he'd found François and Adelle whispering in that first morning; nothing. He knocked on Jovian's office door; again nothing. He found a couple of show-girls that were talking together in hushed tones. When Mitchell asked them where everyone was they shrugged and moved away, saying over their shoulder they'd seen Snow heading towards the cloakroom.

He found her bent over the guestbook with a human member of staff. She looked up at Mitchell and smiled furtively, handing over the book to the attendant and coming towards him. 'Mitchell.' She murmured in greeting.

Mitchell looked at her. Jesus she was beautiful; but he found his mirrored smile as false as hers. 'Hello, Gorgeous.' He replied as she slipped her hands around his back. He tilted up her head and brushed a kiss, he smiled again, _Jesus it would be so simple to take that pretty little head and snap it in half, the manipulative bitch_. 'Where is everyone?'

Snow looked behind her at the attendant and steered Mitchell away. 'Let's go to your room shall we?' She suggested. 'I don't think we should be overheard.'

'Who by?' Mitchell asked.

'Who knows.' Whispered Snow, leading him through a side door in the direction of his bedroom.

'Snow,' he said in exasperation throwing her arm off, he was in no mood for this bollocks. 'Just fucking tell me what is going on!' He had to stop himself from adding 'bitch'. 'Where is everyone?'

Snow gave a small gasp but kept her cool. She held up a hand, looking up and down the corridor. 'Adelle's gone.' She said finally.

Mitchell blinked, a shiver went down his spine._ Fuck._ 'She's dead?'

Snow looked at him strangely for a second, then shook her head. 'No, she's gone. She's been thrown out. Jovian…' she faltered, her eyes unfocused, 'Jovian was so angry.' She whispered. 'I have never seen him that angry.'

'Why? Just because she killed some nobody?'

'Shhh!' Snow said urgently, she grabbed his hand again and pulled him further down the corridor. She wouldn't speak again until they were both in his room. She swung him in, looked out and shut the door, turning the lock.

'Snow, what the fuck is happening, it's like we're running from the fucking Gestapo!'

Snow turned around, looked up at him quickly and strode over to the gramophone, winding it up and laying down the pin filling the room with bouncy Jazz music.

'She didn't just kill someone Mitchell.' She said finally. 'Killing in the club, it's a golden rule, but accidents can happen. Early on I did the same. Jovian was angry, but he understood, it's hard at the beginning.' She conceded.

She moved over and sat down on the bed. 'Adelle's an informer, she's been reporting on us all.' Snow said finally.

'What?' Laughed Mitchell, he hoped he sounded convincing. 'No she's fucking not! I'm the fucking spy we all know that.'

'Please Mitchell,' said Snow holding her hand up. 'I'll tell you everything, but please stop swearing.'

Mitchell sighed and stomped over to the armchair, spreading his legs out in front of him. He raised his eyebrows in expectation.

Snow sighed again. 'When you told me about her, what she did last night. It's not the first time she's done it.' She adjusted herself nervously. 'All of us, Carl, Jovian, Francois, we all believe, to differing extents granted, what I told you before, in the park.' Mitchell nodded. 'We all want to be better than what we are, were. Jovian is my brother, but I chose to stay with him, same with Carl and Francois. Adelle though, I always thought she didn't want to be here, she'd liked The Life too much, but she was Jovian's daughter, he was sure she could change, when she came to him saying she wanted in, he accepted her, no question. That bond between one's recruiter, it can't be broken, ever.' She looked at Mitchell. 'To betray your maker is worse than treason.'

Mitchell knew this. You could drift away, you could do your own thing, they could let you go or you could leave, but you would never betray. He didn't like Herrick, but he would forever be loyal, nothing and no one would make him do otherwise.

'But how do you know she did?' He said.

'Last night's killing, it's the last of a long list.' Snow went on. 'It's been going on for years, phone calls, scribbled notes. But nothing I could prove to Jovian. He wouldn't believe me, he saw it as jealousy. And anyway, she was his child.

'After you left Jovina brought Adelle into his office, to confront her. She couldn't hide it, the body was still lying the room! She said she was sorry, that she had tried to take a little but it wasn't enough, she was so hungry… we'd all heard it before, we could even understand it. She is the youngest after all.

'But Jovian wasn't going to just listen to her this time. He'd sent Francois to search her room. He'd found papers, hidden under a floorboard. Some of them telegrams and all coded of course. But there were a few that were hand written too. Written by the man they'd report to.'

Mitchell's stomach dropped. He shook his head, Adelle you stupid bitch; she'd kept the evidence.

'We all recognised that handwriting.' She continued, she was staring right ahead, her face a pale and flawless as a doll. 'His name's Henry Yorke. Lord Harry. He's an Old One. He's Jovian's….'

'Backer,' confirmed Mitchell. 'Jovian told me.' Well, it was half true.

She paused. Mitchell shifted, she seemed on the verge of tears and nodded.

'Yes.' She whispered, shaking her head, 'Carl should have been there. He could always calm Jovian down. He was incensed. Adelle had betrayed him. And to Hal of all people. She'd told him everything, about what Jovian planned with London, with Paris…' She looked over at Mitchell quickly, seeming to remember he was there. She blinked a few times and cleared her throat. 'He lost control, it was like the last fifty years hadn't happened and he was like before. He didn't rage, he just told me and Francois to leave and closed the door. When he let us back in again, he'd strapped her to a chair, he's cut off all her hair, ripped it out. And her face, he'd cut her face to shreds, so deep she'd be scarred for life. He'd taken her eye, he'd pulled out her teeth, her…' She raised a finger and rubbed her own incisors.

'He told Francois to take her and dump her somewhere. He didn't want to see her ever again, that now everyone would know just how disgusting she was. He said,' Snow wrapped her hands around herself. 'He said to her 'I know you can't see yourself, but let me assure you, no one will ever think you beautiful again.'' She drew her legs up to her chest. 'Carl should have been there.' She whispered.

Mitchell looked at her. He felt odd. He'd just been told a harrowing story that had obviously deeply scarred two people; one physically, the other clearly mentally who had both been his lovers. But all he could think was: _Pulling out a vampire's incisors, genius._

'Snow' Mitchell said at last. 'Snow, where's Jovian now?'

Snow shook her head and looked up. 'Don't worry. Christine is looking after him, he won't do anything stupid, not to her. I think she took him away for a few hours to Kew.'

Mitchell frowned. So even when Jovian is in an impressively sadistic rage he can be placated by a human, Jesus, that really was pathetic.

'My God,' She said suddenly. 'When Carl gets back he'll be so upset!' She shook her head and wiped her cheek.

'Where's he?'

'He went to meet someone in Leeds.' She said vaguely. 'He only left this morning. And now when he comes back tomorrow. What are we going to do? I don't know who to trust, it's just me!'

'What do you mean; who to trust?' Mitchell said in confusion.

Snow looked at him wildly. 'Don't you see? It was all in the notes; Hal wasn't just writing to her; Lord Hal always has two.'

Mitchell blinked. 'What? Who?' _This was news_.

'And she wouldn't tell us who. I don't know what to do.'

_Two_, Lord Hal hadn't mentioned anything about a second. Actually, he hadn't mentioned much at all,_ Just wait for the message_. Twelve hours, that's how long he had. He stood up and walked over to the now shacking Snow White. He held out his hand and leaned in close to her. 'You know what to do Snow.' He whispered to her. 'You're going to open the club like nothing happened. And I'm going to help you.'

Christine came down at seven, informing them that Jovian was calmer, but he'd gone away for the night he didn't want to come back here yet. Mitchell and Snow nodded sympathetically. The human woman smiled sadly, assuring them that he would be fine, he just needed time to get over the shock of Adelle. 'And of himself.' She said simply. Mitchell nodded again, inside he smirked, _Can't pretend that monster doesn't exist can you?_

At midnight Mitchell got a wire to call Thomas at the townhouse the next day – Friday. Mitchell called the operator, got put through and after a second replied 'Okay, thanks Thomas. Tell Herrick I'll be back soon.'

He'd heard six words.

'Carl, and return to the club.'

* * *

**Right, my end bit here.**

**Kew Gardens: A huge park with huge glass houses that house lots of lovely pretty flower, trees and plant life. As wonderful now as it was then.**

**Removal of incisors - all Being Human fans should know about this mentioned Series 2. Love the imagery though of fangless fiends.**

**Think that's it. Right, on to preparing the next!**


	13. Thirty years

**Okay, quick intro.**

**This is my favorite chapter. Lots of evilness! One big scene though, so be prepared, it's quite long and no gaps.**

**I own nothing.**

**Review if you can!**

* * *

Jovian arrived back at the club late the following night. He was numb with exhaustion, his mind tormented by thoughts of Adelle; He had thought that part of him was under control, dared to dream he had beaten the monster inside, it had been so long since it had opened its hungry jaws and howled with the Need.

He'd gagged her to stop the screams, he'd removed her eye so she would stop looking at him. Now, whenever his mind fell back, it was into a delirious dream, watching himself from above, and all he could think was _Look father, are you proud how like you I am?_ It disgusted him; because he was giving Hal exactly what he wanted; he was becoming his protégé again, and a part of him yearned for it. He held his chest, at the heart that didn't beat and breathed hard.

Jovian was tired, where was everyone? He sighed as he let himself in through the private door to his office. No one, not even Christine, she hadn't said she was going out, she always told him. He listened, he couldn't hear her heart. After twenty years, he knew it anywhere… where was it? He walked through a small door that led to the main club via a spiral staircase. Maybe she was with the others in the Royal Box. Everything would be like before; that was one of his rules with his family; the day were reality, the nights were for ignoring it. He smiled, they were bound to have got her drunk by now, Carl would make sure all of them would behave. He trusted them all to treat her with respect, even Mitchell. That thought brought him up sharp, had he come to regard Herrick's 'spy' as a friend?

Jovian blinked. That feeling of unease was back. His private apartment and study were soundproofed, but the more he went down the stairs, the more he was aware that the normal bubble to noise was absent. Very absent.

He slowed as he came to the door to the main floor, it should be deafening now. But there was nothing; no music, no voices, no stamping of dancing feet, no heart beats, _nothing_. His hand gave an involuntary tremor as it turned the handle. Something inside him said he shouldn't do this. Why wasn't he?

Silence. Jovian opened the door to darkness. Someone had left the stage lights on, the only illumination in the room. The curtain was down as if the performers were waiting silently behind. Jovian stepped out; something was ready to start.

He walked slowly towards the protruding stage, where the chairs and tables normally stood. Just off to the left of the stage, in semi-darkness of the corner between the main and the protruding stage stood a solitary round cocktail table with a dark red covering and two seats. One was taken.

Jovian didn't gasp, he didn't stop moving forward, but his head had gone cold. The occupant didn't move, the shadows cast by the stage light too harsh for him to see the face. But he was sure.

'Hello Jovian.'

* * *

Jovian closed his eyes. That voice. The deep, smooth and calm notes he had both longed for and feared for so long to say his name. He couldn't breath; he was a child again, the small scared child that had first walked into that room to find a monster waiting behind the door. Three hundred years and they were all forgotten.

He waited, his eyes closed.

Hal waited, sitting quite still on his chair, one leg crossed over the other, waiting.

'Nothing to say?' Hal projected to the empty auditorium. 'Is that really the way to greet such and old dear friend?' He tutted through his teeth, his voice dropping dangerously low, 'After all I've done for you?'

That made him look up. 'All you've done for me.' he whispered, he repeated it again, like he was rolling them around in his mouth to see how they tasted. His body went cold he rushed forward, 'All you've _done_ for me!' his voice broke.

Hal's face tilted up so the light caught it, his long lashes shielding his eyes. Jovian still remembered the feel of them that night on his cheek as the teeth dug in. Jovian gritted his teeth, he wasn't going to think about that, he had to focus and not to let the rage take over; that's what he wanted. 'Three hundred years.' He whispered.

'I'm sorry?' said Hal loudly, he raised his hand to his ear as if he couldn't hear. 'Did you say something?'

'Three_ hundred_ years.' Jovian said stepping forward. He knew it's what Hal wanted, that he was doing exactly what had been planned, but he had to. 'For three hundred years you've done _nothing_ for me, nothing I've wanted, nothing I've needed. _Never_.'

There was silence. Hal didn't move. Jovian waited, if he had a heart beat he knew it would be racing. He'd never spoken to Hal this way.

'Well, hasn't someone grown up.' Came the smooth reply. Hal flicked a golden lighter open. Jovian inhaled as Hal's face became fully illuminated. Jovian almost gasped at the familiar eyebrows over his deep dark eyes framed by the thick lashes, straight nose and full thick half smiling lips.

Hal slowly lit a cigarette he'd been holding and sucked in, then he propped himself forward and lit a solitary candle in the middle of the table. Hal exhaled, looked at Jovian with level, impassive eyes and kicked out the other chair in invitation. Jovian flinched at the sudden screeching echo it made across the floor. Hal leaned back again and nodded to the chair. 'I think you just earned a seat at this table.'

Jovian gripped the back of the chair and slowly lowered himself down, turning his body away from the table between them. _It's a dream,_ he said to himself. _That's why he's here, so close to me, it has to be, I can wake up whenever I want. Please._

'Nothing more to say Jovi?' Asked Hal lightly as he stubbed out the cigarette into the ash tray. 'I hope this new display of courage isn't over, I've been waiting so long for it to appear after all.'

Jovian smiled sadly, 'You haven't changed.' He murmured. He looked at the floor, he couldn't look at Hal straight in the face. Not yet, not with it so close.

'Neither have you,' Said Hal. 'More's the pity.' He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a matching gold cigarette case. He flipped it open with practiced hands and offered it to Jovian.

Jovian looked down and took one. Hal smiled, clicked the box closed and produced the lighter again, flicking it open to Jovian.

Jovian smiled. 'Ever the gentleman.' he said with irony.

'Manners, unlike most in this world, Jovian,' replied Hal, 'Cost nothing.'

'And we know how high your price normally is.' Exhaled Jovian. It was all so comfortingly familiar; this was just another of Henry Yorke's 'meetings'; he would demand, threaten then leave, it was always best to just let it happen. His eyes went to his maker's, how could he hate and fear someone so much, and yet moments like this; so near to the man that he had avoided for years, he felt like he was coming home? 'Aren't you going to ask me how I am Harry?' said Jovian pointedly. 'It has been thirty years after all.'

Hal chuckled. 'Feeling bold aren't we Jovi?' He flicked his cold eyes up. 'I think we both know the redundancy of such a question.'

'Yes we do.' He agreed. 'And you?'

'Much the same as always.' Replied Hal carefully, his eyes on his twirling cigarette.

'That's not what I've heard. I've heard you've reached new heights.' Hal smiled, slightly impressed.

'And depths.' He added, yes he'd heard about them too. 'Do you remember what happened the last time you soared too high,' Yes; he did feel bold; he wasn't going to let Henry Yorke have complete control this time. 'You had second thoughts.'

Hal's jaw muscles flexed, the cigarette had stopped circling. 'Careful Jovian.' He said in a low voice.

Jovian paused. He knew how close he was, he wasn't strong enough to go further, not yet. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. 'Isn't all this,' Jovian indicated the spotlight on the table and the empty music hall, 'A little over-dramatic? Even for you?'

Hal looked around him. 'Says the man who lives in a theatre.' He took another slow drag; 'Anyway, like all things, there is a purpose.'

'And the purpose of this is?'

Hal said nothing, a small knowing smile playing on his lips as he started again to rotate his cigarette.

Jovian couldn't bare it. 'What do you want Harry?'

'You know what I want.'

Jovian shivered. He had heard Hal say those words so many times before. 'Everything.' He whispered. He was losing his nerve, the rage and hurt he'd felt earlier had melted away to fear and dread. His maker was less than three foot away from him, after decades at arms length. He couldn't take it. 'You know I can't.'

'Clearly.' Hal responded coolly. 'I've given you a chance. I've given you thirty years' worth of chance. I am not normally that generous.' He stubbed out his cigarette.

'I can't.' Jovian repeated, crushing out his own. 'You know better than anyone that I can't, you've felt the same, you've-'

'_Enough _Jovian!' Hal slammed his hand on the table, the candle rocked. Jovian froze, eyes dropping to the table like a slapped puppy. 'I will not _tolerate_ your behavior _any more_.'

Jovian gulped in air, he was here, and the moment was now. In his head he'd been preparing what to say for thirty years. Slowly he raised his head up, his eyes remaining on the table. He placed his hands flat on the table, and brought his eyes up finally to meet his maker; his 'father': _Now was the time._

'I. Won't.' He said. Slowly and firmly. 'I followed you Harry, when you changed. You took me with you and you showed me the value of life, the wonder and duty of protecting humanity from everything evil, from _us_. I never went as far as you did, but once you had taken me there, I couldn't turn my back on it all. I couldn't pretend none of it had happened, I couldn't forget!' He breathed, he couldn't believe Hal was letting him talk like this. 'Please Harry,' he said, it was his turn to lean forward. 'Let me be, order me to go and I will leave, I don't care about London, just let me go.' He shook his head. 'I will disappear, you will never hear of me again. But please Harry, I can't go back.'

Hal looked at him. A small smile creeping onto his face. 'Finally grown up haven't you Jovian?' He said. 'Decided this is how history will remember you?'

Jovian threw himself back in exasperation and anger, 'I don't care about history Harry, I never did. I only wanted to please you, but now all I care about is for history to forget me.'

Silence.

'Wonderful.' Hal said raising both his hands and clapped them together. 'Well said Jovian.' Clap. 'I must say you have become braver,' clap. 'Then I ever thought you could,' Clap. 'Then I ever thought _possible_.' Clap. 'Well _done_.' _Clap_.

The last clap reverberated round the room. Jovian looked at Hal. He was waiting for the lion to pounce. 'And all by yourself.' Hal said.

Jovian looked at him. 'I haven't been all by myself,' he leaned forward a few inches more – it was all he dared. He suddenly lost the will to fight anymore, he wanted to reach out. 'And you don't have to be Harry, please.' He whispered.

'The strength gained through comrades.' Hal mused, not breaking eye contact, his voice soft and lilting. 'I remember how it could make one feel invincible. Make one believe you could face an army of spears and swords and lances and survive.' He smirked. 'Let me tell you Jovian: It is a lie, a lie told to give comfort and bravery to the weak and gullible. We are all alone in the end.' He mirrored Jovian, leaning forward himself, hands spreading out in front of him. 'I think it's time you learnt that lesson.' An icy hand clenched Jovian's stomach. 'I wonder what you would be without your comrades.'

'What would you do without your little donor human.' He lifted his hand 'For example.' and clicked his fingers.

From somewhere someone pulled the huge theatre curtain up, revealing a brightly lit stage. Jovian gasped.

There was Christine, nailed to a ten foot high crucifix. Her eyes open and glassy. Her dress and been ripped and neck punctured, blood had oozed out down her beautiful lace dress. Jovian closed his eyes to stop any tears that threatened to come.

'I have to say Jovi,' said Hal as he effortlessly manoeuvred his chair around next to Jovian. 'I'm all for keeping a vintage, but twenty years of the same sub-par stuff,' He tutted. 'Reminded me of out of date vinegar.'

_No._ Jovian lunged at him, his fingers claws. But Hal was older, and he was faster. He stood, swiveled away, punching Jovian's face and brought his elbow down hard onto his back before grabbing his neck and pushing him hard down onto the table, kicking Jovian's chair away from under him so his knees slammed onto the unforgiving floor.

Jovian collapsed, his cheek crushed, his ribs cracked. Hal came close to his ear. 'Don't be like that Jovian, _my boy_.' He growled. 'The lesson has only just started.' Jovian struggled, Hal's grip tightened.

From behind him he felt two sets of large, rough hands grab is arms and yank him back. Hal stepped away as his two guards held Jovian in place, his feet sliding on the floor. 'You remember Dennis and Louis don't you?' He said airily, re-adjusting his suit.

Jovian struggled into a standing position but pain shot through his chest and arms; the rough grips had dislocated one of his shoulders. 'Yes it always helps to have a good team around you I find.' Hal continued. 'People you can _trust_. _Wouldn't you agree_?'

He shouted the last part, turning his head back to the stage.

Jovian followed his gaze letting out an involuntary whimper of despair. First to appear was Snow, all dressed up in her show outfit, followed Francois. Jovian stared, Francois was half dragging Adelle still bloodied, gagged and bound. Dried blood from her face and missing eye caking her face, uneven tufts of shorn blonde hair framing her like a jagged halo.

'What?' He stammered. His eyes wild. 'What have you done to them?' he asked. He looked between Snow and Francois, he avoided Adelle's eye.

'_I've_ done nothing to them,' laughed Hal. 'Although I have to say I liked your artistic flair on that one.' He pointed to Adelle. 'Very impressive.'

Jovian looked back confused, Hal continued. 'And I have to thank you for leaving mine so utterly unmarked.'

Jovian looked at Snow and Francois, who had remained perfectly in place. 'What?' He whispered. He had to have threatened them, got to them somehow.

Hal walked over to the stage and held up his hand. Like a happy pet Snow obediently trotted over, bent down and took Hal's raised hand, crouching down to kiss him on the lips. When she straightened she looked at Jovian and raised an eyebrow in defiance. 'They've been doing exactly what I asked them to do.'

Jovian shook his head frantically. _No,_ he knew these two. _He knew them_. He'd known Francois for decades, Snow since she was made.

'I think you're going to have to explain your trick Daddy.' Said Snow with a fake pout, excitement dancing in her eyes. 'Brother Jovi's all confused.'

Hal looked back at Jovian. 'Francois, I picked up at my bar in Paris. Silent partner only of course, but I got to name a cocktail or two. Francois became quite a fan of one – the Bloody Mary.'

'But why?' Jovian said to the french man. 'We were friends Francois. I gave you a home here.'

'Try and really think about it Jovian. Didn't it ever strike you as odd?' Hal chastised. 'A Vampire made before the Revolution, born aristocracy who sees the social rules of laws created by their betters disregarded and flouted by the populous. _Anarchy_. Did you really think someone like that would support you, a _radical_?'

Jovian looked back at Francois and for the first time saw behind that mask to the boiling disdain behind.

He looked at Snow next. 'But, but you're my _sister_.' He said. He was pleading.

Snow sniffed. 'And he is our _father_, he _recruited_ us. I would die for him as you should.' Her eyes sparkling. 'He asked us to give him everything and I did _willingly_.'

'But he abandoned you! He took me and left you behind.'

'He found me again!' she shouted back. 'He asked for my forgiveness and I gave it. I would do whatever he wanted. As any _loyal_ child must. I am his true protégé. I am no traitor.' She declared.

Hal chuckled. 'Now that's what every father wants to hear.' He turned to Jovian. 'Maybe that's why you were so willing to accept betrayal in your own offspring. But, poor Jovian, I'm afraid she was ever loyal to you, right until the end.'

Snow produced a wooden stake from behind her skirts and rammed it through Adelle's chest. Adelle let out a muffled scream, eye bright in surprise. She let out a sob, searching for Jovian and tried to speak, but she was already breaking apart.

'No!' Jovian shouted. A yelp of pain escaping as he struggled again, he wanted to get to her, even though all that remained was dust. He looked from where Adelle had been to Snow and Francois then finally Hal. 'I'll kill you!' he raged. 'I'll strip your skin from your bones, you coward!'

Hal stepped forward and backhanded Jovian's face then grabbed it and turned it up towards him. 'I am trying to _help_ you Jovian.' He said slowly. 'You need to have all supports removed in order to be able to walk again.'

Jovian spat a mouthful of blood at his maker's face. He heard Snow gasp but he didn't care. 'Fuck you, Harry.' He said.

Hal smiled in mock sadness. 'If I'd thought it would help, I just might've let you.'

'I wasn't lying Harry,' Jovian growled, inching his face forward in Hal's tight grip, 'You will fall, like you always do, and your soul will crush you, and your life will be an endless torrent of fear, and self loathing with your days filled with nightmares of now that will haunt you to oblivion and drive you into Hell. And you deserve it all!'

Hal froze, so did the room. No one knew what to do, all eyes were on Hal. This was too far, this was unforgivable, all were filled with horror, including Jovian. 'I believe you may be right Jovian.' He said softly, his face serious and honest. 'But until then, I will make sure I earn that place.'

There was a click and a snap behind them at the back of the dancehall. Hal, Snow and Francois all looked, Jovian's head was still held in place by Hal so he couldn't see. He heard footsteps approaching at a fast march towards them. He saw Snow's face light up as she skipped forward and hopped off the stage.

'Ah, Mitchell,' Said Hal dropping Jovian's chin with a smile. 'How perfectly timed. How was Carl?'

Jovian looked at the slender Irishman, his clothes were disheveled, as was his hair, there were traces of ash on his trousers. Jovian's last ember of fight died in his chest. He shook his head. 'No, no, please no.' he said. Mitchell flicked his eyes towards him then back to Hal. He held out his hand. Dropping two small white shards into Hal's outstretched palm.

Hal looked down at them, 'Thank you. A surprisingly nice touch too may I say.' He looked up. 'And I'm not often surprised, Mitchell.' He paused, weighing the pieces in his hand. Then he nodded. 'You can go.'

He jiggled the objects around and then turned back to Jovian. The two men dropped him to the floor where he sagged, all fight and fury gone, he was alone.

Mitchell took one last look at Jovian before turning and leaving. Jovian wasn't paying attention; he was lost in his own head repeating 'No, no, please Harry, please no.' Over and over again as his maker crouched down, picked up Jovian's hand and placed the shards inside them.

Jovian knew what they were. He shook his head, tears streaming down his face. He hung his head, his fingers limp. He took a long ragged breath and opened his hands: Two long sharp canine teeth glistened up at him. He couldn't control himself any more, he let a soul shattering wail rise up through his body and rock the room. He let his howls reach higher and higher until they blocked everything out in him and he became the sound and nothing more.

After what felt like an age, he felt the rough hands around his arms again lift him from the floor. His eyes were too bleary to see properly, but he could recognise Hal's features anywhere. 'Please,' he mumbled in between the sobs. 'End me. I have nothing left Harry. Please'

There was silence. He felt a soft comforting hand stroke the side of his face and a calm, silky voice speaking lightly into his ear. 'But Jovian, you said I never give you what you want.' Jovian took in a breath and tried to clear his eyes, he wanted to see his maker's face, he didn't understand, surely the only end could be his now. 'Still a father must be benevolent to his children. I will grant you one of your wishes.'

'W-what?' he stuttered through his tears.

'You wanted to disappear didn't you?' Hal smiled cruelly. 'Although I'm not going to let history forget you.' He straightened and nodded to the boys.

'W-hat are you going to do?' Jovian said, 'What are you going to do to me?' He was becoming hysterical. '_Harry, w-hat? Where are you taking me_?' The two burly men grabbed Jovian's arms again and started dragging him backwards towards the main door. 'No! Harry, please don't! No! Harry! Where am I going? _Harry_!'

The door shut behind them. The shouts died as they left the building.

Snow moved cautiously towards Hal and rested her hand on his shoulder. 'What are you going to do with him.' She whispered, her excitement had died, she was scared now.

Hal smiled. 'I think I may have a look into expanding my businesses. All these bomb sites that needs redeveloping, they're going to need strong foundations.'

* * *

**One more chapter to go, and then an apendix then it's all over. The next one is written, but first draft only so may be a few days.**

**Right, only one thing to comment on, and I hope it makes you chuckle:**

**Ahh, yes the 'Bloody Mary'. Happy coincidence really. But it was first made in the 1920s at a bar in Paris called Harry's New York Bar. It made me very excited to discover this and I had to add it!**


	14. Missed Goodbyes

**Right, this is the end. It's been a great experience writing. I have thoroughly enjoyed it and thanks to everyone for reviewing. There is going to be an extra chapter here, but this is where the story ends.**

**I own nothing, but am eternally grateful for TW for inventing such great characters! Bring on Series 5!**

* * *

Mitchell pulled his coat firmly around himself, the air outside was warm but all Mitchell felt was the chill from inside him.

He'd hung around in the shadows, waiting until it was over. He'd pressed himself against the outside wall as the battered and bloodied Jovian was thrown into the back of a waiting van, the two heavies bundling in after him. This wasn't right, Mitchell thought, there was something very final about the way the van door was slammed shut, he'd seen Jovian's eyes rise up as he was dragged out; it was like he was saying goodbye to the building.

He had waited a few minutes once the van pulled away, but Snow and Hal hadn't appeared. He didn't know what he was waiting for, he didn't dare face Hal – he was sure the Old One could read him like a book. He definitely didn't want to see Snow again either, ever.

He gulped down some air and took a slow step away from the building, out into the street. Thomas was waiting around the corner to take him home. He crossed the street and walked passed the row of parked cars, focusing only on placing his feet firmly one in front of the other.

'John Mitchell?'

Mitchell's head jerked up, his eyes narrow at the unfamiliar voice that had rudely stepped into his path.

'Who wants to know?' he said to the taller and disconcertingly broader man that had materialized in front of him, face obscured by a hat pulled down unnecessarily low. He'd taken on bigger, Mitchell reasoned to himself, but he'd almost always been drunker. The hat turned to a large Rolls Royce Silver Wraith that was parked next to them.

'That would be me.'

Mitchell shifted his eyes to the car. The back window was open. Inside another man's head appeared; thin and pale with blue veins that framed the face accentuating the pointed nose and watery eyes. The man gave a thin cold smile. 'My name is Edgar Wyndham, I believe you know my associate, Hal Yorke.'

Mitchell froze. He looked closer at the man in the car. The street lamp shining down on his face did little favours. Still, he could recognise the signs on his face for what they were - Here sat another Old One. He swallowed.

Wyndham looked him up and down. 'Would you care to step inside.' He said lightly.

'No.' Mitchell said, a bit too fast._ I'm not going into another vipers' nest._ 'Ah, I mean, you're alright thanks. Gotta long way to travel, you know.' He corrected.

The Viper's eyes narrowed. 'Is Bristol really all that far?' he said _Of course he fucking knows_ _where I live_ Mitchell thought with a sigh. 'Especially nowadays, with such good roads?'

Mitchell squirmed but stood his ground. He looked at the floor, at the car door, anywhere but the eyes that were boring into him.

'Very well.' Came the measured response. 'It has been an eventful day for you.' Mitchell gave a sheepish smile. 'Hal has been rather busy today, cutting up the loose ends.' He smirked. 'So to speak. How does it feel to be the only survivor?' He whispered.

That made Mitchell look up. 'What?'

'I've known Henry a long, long time.' Said Wyndam, his head briefly turning to the door of the Club behind him before returning to Mitchell. 'He won't want any reminders of tonight. Not even his little allied spies.' He whispered conspiratorially.

Mitchell blinked, his eyes glancing back to the closed club door. He looked back at Wyndham who smiled again. 'And yet, he let you go.' He regarded Mitchell. 'Curious. You must have made quite an impression.'

Mitchell didn't say anything.

'I will see you again John Mitchell.' Wyndham nodded withdrawing from the rising glass of the window. Mitchell continued to stare at his distorted reflection, all blurred and unclear with the electric light behind. For once, Mitchell was glad he couldn't see his face properly.

The car purred into life and slowly pulled away, leaving Mitchell alone, the man in the hat had melted away.

* * *

He stayed where he was. He didn't take his eyes from the entrance of the Club. He backed into the shadow of a doorway but didn't light a cigarette like he usually did. He just stood and waited.

Half an hour later, a sleek black 1946 Bentley MK Vi stopped in front of the door. Mitchell waited. The door opened five minutes after and out stepped the vampire that had shown him down into the cellar – Fergus, he remembered.

Fergus went around the car and stood facing the door, his back to Mitchell. He lit a cigarette and waited. Ten minutes passed and the Club door opened and Hal came out, snapping Fergus to attention. Hal paused, rubbed his lip and gave a small smile, seemingly lost in thought.

'Everything alright My Lord?' Mitchell heard Fergus say, holding open the door.

'Fine, Fergus.' Hal replied, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. 'I wanted to have a proper goodbye, She really was a... very talented girl.'

Fergus smirked. 'Yes my Lord. And er,' He looked back at the Club. 'This place?'

Hal turned around, flicking ash onto the curb before stepping into the car. 'Burn it.'

* * *

The drive back to Bristol was long and quiet. Thomas had tried to engage Mitchell in conversation; ever the record keeper, but for once, Mitchell didn't feel like talking.

He had arranged for Thomas to pick him up in Whitechapel and take him to Club 6.

When Mitchell returned back from the club he'd told Thomas to go straight back to Bristol, forget going back to the London house; he wasn't gonna come back here for a long time.

Thomas had looked back, his eyes narrowing. 'You haven't done anything we need worry about have you Mitchell.'

Mitchell glanced at him, then adjusted his shoulders against the leather of the back seat his face blank. 'Everything's fine Thomas, Lord Hal said I could go.'

Thomas nodded his head slowly and turned back, if he could, he would have looked back at Mitchell in the rear view mirror. If he had, he would have seen Mitchell's poker face slip.

Mitchell clenched his jaw and looked at the back on Thomas' head. He would have to tell Herrick about what had happened, but first, he had to master himself, just a little. He closed his eyes slowly and thought back to earlier that evening, when everything had started to unravel.

* * *

'Mitchell, you don't want to do this.' Carl had held his hands up and backed away, closer to the dock on the edge of Cubitt Town. It was a good place, in the east end of London, quiet and rough. Dust from brick and asphalt production meant no one stayed here past their work hours. And who would notice a pile of ash when everything was coated in a permanent layer of grit?

Mitchell spun the long knife in his hand. 'Sorry Carl,' he said slowly, his eyes dark, voice low, 'I think you're confusing me with someone you know.'

He'd driven Carl out here himself, grabbing him as he had stepped through the door. It had been far too easy, tell Carl about Jovian losing it with Adelle, tell Carl Jovian had run off. Tell Carl he would drive him to Jovian. It had been far too easy.

'Why are you doing this?' Whispered Carl, panic in his normally calm voice.

'Because I can Carl, because it's who I am. And because I am nobody's _fucking_ _puppet_.' Mitchell spat.

Carl shook his bewildered head. 'Mitchell calm down, please, what do you mean? You're nobody's puppet, w-'

'_Shut the fuck up_!' Mitchell roared. 'Don't say another fucking word! You tried to turn me, I know. You wanted me on your side. 'Get Big Bad John to stop drinking blood and the world will follow!' isn't that it? Isn't that what you wanted all along? To be your _fucking_ poster boy!'

Carl blinked, he edged around a coil of rope that waited to be connected to incoming ships. He was trying to get closer to the edge. Mitchell wasn't about to let him; in the water he could escape, he wanted him in the warehouses; cornered with his back against solid brick and steel.

'We never tried anything like that Mitchell.' Carl said slowly. 'We wouldn't do that.' He looked so confused, Mitchell felt the anger rising, he was caught, the least the coward could do was own up.

'Don't fucking lie to me Carl!' He shouted, pointing the knife, guiding Carl towards back towards the warehouses. 'It's your last few minutes on this earth, you believe all your sins are waiting for you on the other side, don't make the last one lying.'

Carl was panicking. 'I'm not Mitchell, John. I don't know what you think we've done but-'

'Don't fucking lie to me! I will fucking rip you apart one line of flesh at a time Carl I swear to God!' He rushed Carl and threw him back against a brick wall. It was so easy, he shook his head as Carl pathetically crumpled to the ground. 'I know it all, how you plan to convert everyone, stop everyone from drinking, take over London, then England, Britain, France and Europe. And you were going to use me as your special example, if you could do it to me, you could do it to anyone.'

Carl looked up at Mitchell, his eyes narrowed. 'What? Who told you that?'

'Snow told me, that's who! But I didn't need to hear it from her, Hal told me everything, and Adelle told him. He had spies on you all this time and you didn't know.' Mitchell laughed, spinning around and landing a rib crushing kick.

Carl collapsed, huddled on his side from the force of Mitchell's boot in his chest. He wheezed breath coming painfully hard and fast, but he wasn't done yet. He shook his head, 'Adelle's not a spy.' He finally got out.

'Oh yes she fucking is! And she wasn't the only one! Hal always has two, so,' He moved closer, 'You can run, but if I don't get you, the other one will.'

Carl shook his head, utter confusion on his face as he tried to sit up, one arm hugging himself. 'Mitchell wait, stop. I don't understand. Who's Hal?'

'Don't you know?' Mitchell taunted, he was starting to enjoy himself, ripping everything away one revelation at a time. 'Hal is Jovian's backer. Lord Hal Yorke.'

Carl's mouth dropped open. '_Henry Yorke_.'

Mitchell sniffed, 'Oh yeah, he changed his name, you wouldn't know, it's a recent thing…' the words trailed away, something was pulling at his head, something didn't feel right about it.

'Henry Yorke,' Carl began, getting to his feet with a grunt. 'Isn't Jovian's _backer_.' It was Carl's turn to get angry. 'Lord Harry Yorke is the reason we're all in this _prison_. He's the reason Jovian has been trapped in this gilded cage for_ thirty years_, all because he couldn't have his once prized recruit, his _son_, living a life that he didn't chose.'

'Bullshit!' Said Mitchell. He wasn't going to listen to any more lies. He needed to stay focused, so why had the feeling of unease started to creep in. He shook his head. 'Hal would've told me-'

'Would he?' shouted back Carl, Mitchell stopped. 'That man is so full of poison and lies and hate and rage for himself, everything and everyone! He didn't tell you about Jovian? Why would he? To what end?' Carl pushed himself up off the wall. 'He told you only what suited him, he's manipulating you, both of them have!'

Mitchell blinked, his knife forgotten. 'What? Who's been manipulating me?'

Carl shook his head and looked at the ground, his eyes squeezed shut. 'That's where I was yesterday. I'd finally found proof.' He looked up. 'I know Adelle isn't the informer,' He looked up at Mitchell, stealing himself for what he was about to say, 'It's not her, because it's Snow.'

Mitchell blinked. Carl bent over himself, raising his other hand and pressing it hard against his forehead. 'That's what I was doing in Leeds, I finally had proof. We all know Harry, sorry _Hal_, he never asks question because he knows the answers. And he knows the answers because he always has someone tell him beforehand. Jovian thought it was enough he was doing what Harry asked, but he wouldn't just trust Jovian, he trusts no one.'

He let out a sob and crouched down. 'I finally had proof.' He repeated in despair.

Mitchell was dumbstruck. 'Snow?'

Carl nodded, as he slowly crumpled to the floor, back against the wall.

_No, this was more lies! _Thought Mitchell, _he wasn't going to fall for this just like that. _'Where's this proof then?' He said. Carl looked up. 'What proof!' Mitchell yelled lunging at Carl, thudding into his chest and laying the blade against his throat.

Carl's eyes popped wide. 'In,' he stammered, 'in my left pocket.'

Mitchell's eyes narrowed. He moved his free hand down into Carl's pocket and drew out a folded piece of fine paper, brown at the edges with age. Mitchell pushed himself up and backed away, but didn't turn around.

He opened in.

_Dearest Papa Yorke,_

_Please can you allow me home? I hate it here in this Hell that is 6. He's not doing what you asked, flouting your orders like the traitor he is. He, his disgusting sodomite lover and pathetic daughter make me sick! Please let me come back, I miss you so much! I only live to feel your touch again, to feel the ecstacies only you can give me. Your ever loyal and loving daughter._

_ Mary-Beth._

He didn't know the name, but he knew the flowery swirling handwriting. Mary-Beth; so that was Snow's real name.

Mitchell stared at it for a while. He didn't see Carl get up off the floor or move closer to him. He barely registered when a hand was placed lightly on his shoulder.

'I'm sorry John.' Said Carl.

Mitchell blinked, looking up at the kind face next to him. ''She called him Hal.' Mitchell said finally. Carl frowned. 'When she was telling me about Adelle, she called him Hal.'

Carl nodded slowly in understanding. 'And she would only know that if she spoke to him recently.'

Mitchell dropped the letter and knife to the ground, raising both hands to his head as his mind clicked everything together. 'He asked me to meet him. He ordered me to come the day after I told Snow I wanted to join you. She'd warned him.'

He'd been used. Again.

* * *

Back in the car Mitchell's balled fist hit the car door with a thud. Thomas turned to him but didn't speak. Mitchell looked down at the letter that now rested on his lap, street lamps lighting and fading the paper. He looked down at the name again 'Mary-Beth.'

He looked out the window. He couldn't look at her when he had delivered the teeth of an unfortunate vampire's he'd come across on the way to the car.

He looked down again at the letter then turned it over to reveal a very different scrawl. Mitchell hadn't read it out of respect when Carl had thrust it into his hands as he left. But now he felt honour bound that someone should read it.

_Jovian,_

_John has agreed to give you this letter, to let you know I am safe. It breaks my heart to think of what you would have suffered tonight thinking I'm gone, but it was necessary for all._

_ I know that Harry will have left you in pieces, but I know he will never bring himself to kill you, you may think he is a monster, but he is running from himself._

_It is time for you to break from him for good. I will be waiting for you in Prague when you are ready, come soon._

_ C_

'Everything okay Mitchell?' Said Thomas with a frown.

Mitchell blinked a few times and crushed the letter in his hand. 'Yeah Tom. Just a little hungry.' He looked out the window.

Thomas nodded. 'I'll stop off on the way.'

* * *

**Right. Last comments. *sniff***

**Mitchell seeing his reflection: TW did say early on (series one) that due to production costs, vampires in his universe would have reflections just not exact reflections like mirrors, photos and video. It was a budget issues as trying to digitally remove reflections in windows as the actors walked past would have cost thousands. Hope this explains it.**

**Hal's car: 1946 Bentley MK Vi. basically, drool. look it up on Google or where ever, it is totally the car Evil Hal would be chauffeured around in. The fact that Wyndam had a Rolls Royce Silver Wraith (again check it out, very Wyndam classic) is because I think, because of their mutual dislike, neither would want to be seen to 'copy' the other in something like car model.**


	15. Epilogue: Jovian's Beginnings

**Epilogue.**

**This is purely Jovian. An ode to a Character I created and got stuck under my skin. I do borrow Mr Yorke though so thanks TW!**

**This is Jovian's beginnings.**

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Jovian died on the 16th of August 1643

He was the son of a French Huguenot immigrant woman living in Central London. Soho was never quite an acceptably area for the affluent set, but it was home to those who had been made to flee their own. Anyone that was seen there, was never seen for long for one reason or another, and that's what made it so good for certain types of business.

Jovian had been named after his father, or so he was told by the smirking black toothed Brothel owner, Maurice. That is the name given to all punters who were upper class and English. He never got a lengthier answer from his dead eyed mother, who swayed down corridors, hands feeling her way, sweeping past her wide eyed son with nothing more than a small flutter of her hand upon his golden hair. When she did speak, it was never to answer his questions,

'_Do you love me Jovian? Do you love your mama?' she asked dreamily as she looked in a small mirror, delicately touching a large sore that had grown in the corner of her mouth._

'_Yes Mama.' He answered automatically._

_A ghost of a smile played across her lips. 'Then you are a foolish boy.' She replied._

She had never thought children held much interest, but by the time Jovian was old enough to possibly draw her large liquid blue eyes into focus, she had long since disappeared into a shallow paupers' grave.

'_Am I beautiful still?' She had asked him one night, her head lolling around on her too thin neck, her soft ethereal voice rasping in her dry throat._

'_Yes Mama,' he replied as he shuffled forward, laying his young six year old's hand on her warm clammy shoulder. 'You are very beautiful.' _

_Her gaze shifted to him, her tired teased ringlets giggling around her crusted white face with rouged cheeks and small velvet beauty spots that failed to cover the tell-tale diseased imperfections that had taken over her face. She blinked slowly, the empty bottle of gin on the dressing table winking at Jovian in the candlelight. 'Then you are blind as well as foolish.' She had drawled, dropping the mirror to the floor and shakily getting to her feet. 'I pray you are too blind to see your own future.'_

_Jovian had nodded. He didn't understand his mother most of the time, but he stayed by her as she fell into the dirty bed. He waited there until someone came to take him away well after she'd stopped breathing._

He had been allowed to stay. He was cheaper than a maid, and was far more adept at going by un-noticed. He could take the stained sheets down to wash in the Thames, or stay silent in a room picking pockets while clothes lay forgotten next to squeaking beds. He moved like a mouse, small and noiseless, which is exactly what Maurice needed.

But he got older and became too noticeable to hide in the corners of rooms. The women started to stare, and attention started being paid; Maurice stopped clipping him round the ear and started scrutinizing him closely. On his fourteenth birthday he was placed in front of his first male customer with clear and threatening instructions on what exactly was now expected of him. His hands trembled as he dropped to his knees and he fumbled with the man's clothes, but he didn't stop, he didn't make a sound.

He dared to dream of escaping. Of his father coming to look for him. His mother had said he looked like his father. He would come one day. Every day on the streets as he scouted for customers, he looked at every face, looking for one with pale skin, golden hair and big blue eyes.

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Someone did find him, or more accurately, he found them.

It happened one morning as he arrived home after a night working the streets. He liked to enter the house when he knew everyone would be heading off to bed after working all night. That morning he pushed open the front door to silence; he came back to the rotten, stinking, crumbling house to find not a soul, no half-drunk passed out artists in the downstairs drinking den or drunks in the corners. As he crept up the stairs the only sound was his shoes on the creaking floorboards. It was never that quiet. He walked through the corridor where the women had their rooms. At this hour they would be chatting, winding down after their final clients, or already asleep snoring. But tonight, nothing.

Then a scuffle, muffled sounds from the far room. Jovian blinked, it was out of place, as Jovian approached, he slowed. Those noises were too heavy for Marie whose room it was. And they were too careful for the obese bully Maurice. Jovian waited, he could hear faint scraping of shoe on floorboard inside, he held his breath which as suddenly becoming incredibly loud to himself. His ears filled with his own hearts' rhythmic thudding.

Jovian was not a brave soul, but he was too close now to turn away, especially since he didn't know what he was running from. And anyway he thoughts, where would he go? He let out his breath and open the door.

There was pathetically little in the room. All that was ever needed was a chair to sit on or rest their clothes, a dressing table and mirror to get ready and a bed to lie in; not much, but it was all wrong: everything was cracked, smashed and broken - like it has been thrown around by a giant; the bed clothes thrown half off the bed, stained dark, and far from empty. A leg lay exposed and a porcelain hand was delicately draped over the edge of the bed. Jovian went over slowly. Marie was so still, her long curly hair covering her normally puffy face, the blonde tinged with red.

'I thought I heard another.' Came a calm voice behind the door. Jovian spun around, his heart leaping into his mouth.

Dressed in fine velvet longcoat, black boots with gold buckles, lace cuffs and ruffled neck, stood a dark haired man. He dabbed at his mouth with a lace handkerchief stained crimson at the edges. The air in the room told Jovian it was already too late for him, but he didn't know why.

The man smiled, 'Aren't you a little late to be seeking entertainment? This house is closed now boy.'

Jovian stepped back, banging into the bed. He saw out of the corner of his eye Marie's lifeless hand shake. 'I live here.' He whispered hoarsely, his voice betraying his terror.

The man's eyes narrowed, a curious smile reaching his lips that drew back to reveal pearly white teeth that caught in the faint candlelight. 'Do you now.' He stepped forward delicately. 'Any why would you live here?'

Jovian felt hot, like a fever was coming on him. He couldn't take his eyes off this man. He wanted to run, but he had nowhere to go. 'I was born here.' He rasped.

The smile widened. 'Were you?' He grinned, his eyes flicked over Jovian. 'How… interesting.' He reached out a hand to the door and slowly pushed it closed, turning is back as he did so. 'I knew another who had a very similar start in life,' the man said slowly.

Jovian stared, his eyes snapping to the broken mirror opposite the door. He blinked in the weak candelight. He saw the door close in all five of the shards like a grotesque kaleidoscope. He looked over to the door itself, to where the man stood in front of it, tracing his hand casually over the wood. Back to the mirror; just the door. 'What…' he whispered, his heart pounding in his chest like the soldiers marching drum. 'What are you?' He breathed.

The man smiled and turned his head. 'Don't worry about that now, there will be plenty of time for that later.' He said as he faced Jovian, his dark eyes suddenly shining like black marble. 'I think we are going to become good friends.'

Jovian didn't even use his last human breath to cry out. He should have felt fear, he knew this was his last moment of life. But all his head could process, as a heavy weight slammed him into the ground, and cold, sharp pain pieced his neck was little thought, with his last breath, Jovian opened his mouth and uttered two words as his eyes went dark; 'A friend?'

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**Explaining about the Huguenots and my understanding of Jovian.**

**The French Huguenots were a protestant religious group who were forced out of France when the country – which was strongly Catholic – turned against them. They started moving out of France in the 1550s where the First Protestant Church of London was established in Soho. I have placed Jovian as he is a second generation French émigré. I pictured him in the old London – before the 1666 first that smartened everything up.**

**The Huguenots started in Soho and settled in Shorditch. I liked to think that Jovian had never really lost his roots, remaining in Soho where he was born.**

**Many immigrants who found themselves in a foreign country formed 'ghettos' where they grouped together to form communities. The Huguenots established a great lace trade. However, I imagined Jovian's mother as one of the many who were not so lucky and had fallen into that 'oldest of professions'.**

**Again, I wanted to tie in Jovian's past with his 'present' in the story. I saw him as someone who had never really got a handle on himself, trying to ground himself in the familiar; he had his whole world ripped from him not just once but many times, and this is something I don't think he came to terms with.**

**And yes, you guessed it, the man with the dark hair is Hal! yaaay!**

**Thanks so much everyone for following. I have loved this story, and loved your comments. Hopefully I will be able to write another one like this too!**


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